


things not seen

by theinkwell33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Characters, Aziraphale writes horoscopes for the paper, Crowley and Aziraphale both have psychic abilities, Crowley works at a supernatural hotel, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Gen, Good AUmens AU Festival, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Misadventures in Baking, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Psychics AU, but they each think the other is a fraud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Ezra Fell leads a simple life. He writes horoscopes for the paper, and on occasion uses his psychic powers to spread general well-being to his community. His by-the-book world, however, becomes more complicated when he crashes straight into the most blatant fraud he's ever met - Anthony J. Crowley.Meanwhile, Crowley's life is hardly simple. He works at a supernatural hotel, his closest friend is his dry cleaner, and he happens to be the only legitimate psychic in existence. If he could only prove that his enemy, Ezra Fell, is the fake psychic Crowley knows him to be, maybe something will finally go right.A psychics AU, presented as part of the 2020 Good AUmens AU Fest.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 112
Kudos: 290
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. blackcurrant and apple

**Author's Note:**

> Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.  
> Hebrews 11:1

_Weekly Horoscope Review for October 8, Published in the Celestial Observer_

_Libra: Be mindful of the stranger you bump into. He is not what he says he is. This week, your mind remains open to the whispers and plans of the universe, which is, as we all know, ineffable. Be wary of leaves, tea or otherwise, and avoid wheatgrass at all costs._

\- October 8 -

There was a smudge of ink on his wrist.

Ezra wanted to rub it away with the flat of his thumb. He imagined doing it, cleaning off the errant stain, but he couldn’t actually do anything about it. He was in the middle of racing to meet a very tight deadline, and he couldn’t tend to his writing wounds because he was frantically typing up the scribbles he’d managed to capture on his notepad, wishing he had more time.

Ordinarily, he’d have come into the staff office this early morning, made himself a comforting mug of cocoa with cinnamon sprinkled on top, and worked through his to-do list in the quiet of a space that has yet to see another employee for at least another hour.

But today, he’d overslept, and instead of having a peaceful morning all to himself, he’d arrived to discover his editor in chief, Gabriel, had assigned him yet _another_ column. “By the end of today, sunshine,” he’d grinned, as if he knew exactly the Herculean task he’d just set on Ezra’s shoulders.

With a sigh, Ezra finished a paragraph and glanced at the clock, wearily realizing he only had one more hour to make this perfect, and he still had a long way to go. Part of him wished he’d just stayed home, called in sick, or just slept on through the day.

He’d had the most curious dream.

Most dreams, in Ezra’s case, were curious. He didn’t like to brag about it, but they had a rather unusual habit of coming true. If he dreamed it, he could almost always count on it happening within the next day. He wasn’t sure how, but his brain just _knew_.

Of course, that did him no good most of the time. Knowing that he would pass a lady with a blue umbrella on the street, or knowing that a colleague would get a gold tattoo on her cheek was generally ineffective at making him at all extraordinary in any of the ways that would matter. There were no lottery numbers funneled through his head at night, or blueprints to some miraculous invention. Just notes on the ordinary lives of ordinary people. A preview, as it were.

At the end of it all, he was still just a fussy, anachronistic writer who would likely never amount to more than a pressed-for time, overworked employee with ink stains on his hands and too many cocoa mugs that needed cleaning.

But so far, that was okay. He made a living, if a modest one. He had friends, hobbies, and a small flat that always smelled like dusty paper and red wine, thanks to the hipster bookstore bar below. He had a bit of a social life, and sometimes he did mystical Readings for people on the side. For free of course; he felt that, with his gift, the only proper thing was to help others and bring them comfort. 

He even liked his job most of the time. 

Writing horoscopes wasn’t difficult when you were a psychic. One could argue it was never difficult, of course, but one would be incorrect. It is extremely difficult to get horoscopes dead wrong, and yet, people have managed it.

But no matter how much of a challenge it was to meet the unrealistic deadlines and assignments Ezra’s management set (not just weekly horoscopes, but also daily ones now, _and_ an editorial on end-of-the-world prophecies), the words really did seem to write themselves. 

Ezra couldn’t scientifically explain how his horoscopes and predictions ended up being correct, but he was told often by readers and his very small band of “fans” that they were consistently, uncannily accurate. And that was job security for him; Gabriel could deny it all he wanted, but the newspaper couldn’t fire Ezra, seeing as he was doing such a frighteningly good job.

Gabriel had no idea, of course, that Ezra possessed this fortunate talent. It was rather a best kept secret, to be shared in confidence with clients, fellow psychics, or friends. To the rest of the staff of the Celestial Observer, Ezra was just incredibly creative and good at astrology; some might say a lonely, odd man with a pocketwatch. All of this was true, of course, but it wasn’t the _whole_ truth.

Within the hour, Ezra finally relinquished the keyboard and sent the set of horoscopes off into the internet ether, where Gabriel immediately would receive a notification on his shiny oil slick of a phone. If they were approved, they’d show up in tomorrow’s edition and a direct deposit would be made to Ezra’s account. If not, Ezra would receive redlines in precisely one hour, with a thirty minute grace period before they needed to be submitted again. Then the new horoscopes would appear in tomorrow’s edition, and the direct deposit would be made in a slightly reduced amount.

With an hour to pass somewhere that was not his small, cluttered desk, Ezra decided to make a stop at the small cafe down the street, a charming place called Nutter’s. The walk was quick, but it was awfully windy and the crisp autumn air tugged at his snug white overcoat. He walked through the glass door eagerly, while brushing a stray leaf from where it had gotten tangled in his hair.

Unfortunately, he didn’t make it to the counter, because he immediately collided with someone who was walking briskly to the exit. There was a jumble of limbs, the sound of crumpling cardboard, and something hot splashed against his perfectly white coat. Cider, it seemed, from the lovely aromatic scent of apple and cinnamon that filled his nose. It was such an inane detail for his brain to notice, given the frankly more alarming fact that his coat was going to be ruined, but Ezra couldn’t help it. He _loved_ cinnamon. He’d dreamed about cinnamon and apple trees last night.

Nevertheless, when he finally regained his bearings, he did gaze in horror at the amber liquid now seeping into his coat. “ _Look_ at the state of this,” he exclaimed, “I’ll never get this stain out!”

“Nkghm. My bad,” said the stranger, looking equally alarmed. It was an unexpected expression given that this man looked like someone who would ruin your day on purpose. He was wearing all black with distressed fabrics and studs, and his short hair was arson red. Even his posture was aggressive and eager to irritate. There were opaque sunglasses perched on his nose, and he pushed them back into place with a bony finger before Ezra could catch a glimpse of the eyes beneath. “You all right?”

“Physically, yes, although I admit I’m rather distressed about this coat.”

“It’s white, you could probably do some sort of bleachy spot treatment,” the man suggested, looking far too concerned for someone who still wasn’t apologizing.

“I’d always know it was there.”

“Huh?”

“Underneath,” Ezra clarified huffily.

“Oh.” The man gives him a confused look. “You sure you’re okay? Didn’t hit your head?”

“Quite all right. And you?”

“I’m fine. Need a new drink now, though. Let me get yours too, at least.”

Ezra was never one to refuse a beverage, and he did feel this was at least a start to proper recompense for his ruined coat. “Very well,” he sighed, “If you insist.”

“Yeah,” said the man. “Er, I’m Crowley. By the way.”

“Ezra.” They shook hands perfunctorily, and then proceeded to the counter, where dear Anathema had just taken a seat on the cashier stool. She’d become one of Ezra’s close friends after they’d met at a psychics and mediums conference here in London a few years earlier. She was one of very few Americans to attend, and only one of two mind readers present, so she naturally stood out. Ezra stood out for other reasons, namely his clothes and demeanor, and it was therefore no surprise that the two had met and hit it off at once.

Anathema ended up liking London so much that she arranged for a flatshare here and moved in within the span of a year. It was a lovely, if somewhat cramped place, and Ezra had spent many a summer day drinking lemonade with her on the tiny balcony, comparing notes on old and dusty prophecies.

It was fortunate that Anathema was present today, Ezra thought, to get a read on Crowley’s intentions as he sauntered up to make his order.

“Another cider, please, and a cocoa with a warm blackcurrant scone with lemon curd for him, if you don’t mind.”

“How did you know-” Ezra began, shocked that Crowley had not only ordered for him but had managed to get his exact preference on the first try.

“Lucky guess,” Crowley said quickly, adjusting his sunglasses. 

Anathema looked skeptical, but merely said, “Coming right up. What happened to your first cup, Mr. Crowley? Did I miss something while I was in the back room?”

“I was clumsy,” he sighed. “Got a tendency for destruction, me.”

“Oh, really?” Anathema’s gaze intensified. 

She was definitelyReading him. She had her Mind Reading Expression on, and Ezra could sense the staticky tang her effort left in the air. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “How much for the ah…”

“Oh, right,” Anathema blinked, and the Reading ceased. As she told him the amount, Crowley nodded quietly and handed over a matte black card. Of course it was black.

“I...er,” Ezra faltered. He was starting to get a headache, probably from Anathema’s psychic feedback. “...Please excuse me. I’m going to go find some napkins, I’d like to try and salvage my coat.” He backed away from the counter and walked to the cart holding silverware and a napkin dispenser.

Even from across the room, he heard Anathema say, “What happened to his coat?”

“Me,” was all Crowley said. There was a plastic clacking noise and a beep as the credit card was swiped.

Ezra grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser and blotted at his coat, as if it would make any difference. He knew it would not.

Finally giving up, he turned around, not sure what to do next. His eyes found Anathema, and she regarded him over Crowley’s shoulder with a raised eyebrow. Ezra stared back and shrugged, then went to go and sit at a table by the window, so he could watch the people outside. He took off his coat and cast it over the back of his chair so he didn’t have to look at it anymore.

To his surprise, when the drinks were ready, Crowley came and sat down opposite him. “Here’s yours,” he said as he set down the warm scone and cup of cocoa. He then lifted his own cup of cider in a vague _cheers_ sort of way and took a sip.

“I thought you were on your way out,” Ezra said before he could stop himself. It was hardly how one properly started a conversation, but he was too taken aback to have any regard for decorum, apparently. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Er. Thank you.”

“‘S fine. Least I could do.” Crowley shrugged, and his bony shoulders made the movement look jagged and prickly. “Don’t really have anywhere to be, was gonna walk around but ‘s too windy. Changed my mind. Decided to stay at least until I’ve finished my drink.”

“Well. All right, then.” Ezra was going to say something else, but all words evaporated from his mind as he noticed Anathema approaching their table. She set a mason jar full of bills down on the table with a _thunk_.

“Hi. Forgot to ask earlier. We’re taking donations for the Doomsday Ball on the fifth of next month, if either of you would like to contribute.”

“The what?” Crowley demanded.

“The shop puts on an event every year; we watch apocalypse movies and have a baking competition. A donation gets you a ticket in to sample everything and see the movies. All proceeds go to the animal shelter next door.”

“Last year,” Ezra adds for Crowley’s benefit, “they brought some of the animals from the shelter for everyone to meet and consider adopting, it was very sweet.”

Crowley said nothing, but his face was a battleground; annoyance and resigned softness warred for full presentation. It finally settled on something like pain, and he extracted a bill from his wallet and popped it into the jar.

Ezra followed suit, marveling silently at his curious new acquaintance.

“Excellent. Thanks. The event starts at four.” Anathema tore off two small red tickets from a roll belted to her apron, and handed them each one. She then whisked the jar off the table and turned to Ezra. “I’m going on my break. Make sure nothing descends to madness while I’m gone?”

“Of course.”

“Awesome.” She left the table to gather her things from behind the counter.

“Do you work here?” Crowley frowned.

“No, no. I’m just a friend who spends quite a bit of time here. Anathema knows she can trust me.”

“Hmm.”

They watched in awkward silence as Anathema gathered her over-the-shoulder bag, bundled her hair up into a half bun, and exited the cafe. She remained within view of the glass windows lining the entrance as she walked away, but didn’t get far before she crashed right into someone.

This someone was the employee at the adjacent animal shelter, who was wearing a hideous nametag that said NEWT and was carrying a bag of leaves he’d just raked from around the planters lining the street. The leaves spilled out amid the collision, encircling Anathema and Newt in the wind like some kind of tornado. The two sputtered silently, but their expressions eventually softened into something like amusement at their mutual clumsiness. Newt plucked a leaf from Anathema’s hair and she smiled.

“Must be going around,” Crowley mused quietly, taking a sip. He drummed black painted nails on the table.

“What?”

“The crashing into strangers thing, I mean.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Y-yes.” Ezra couldn’t help but think of the horoscope he’d written only yesterday - today’s predictions, spot on again.

There was another pause. Both Anathema and Newt disappeared from view as they walked further down the block.

“This is going to sound so ridiculous,” Crowley murmured, “but running into you was my exact horoscope today. You probably think it’s dumb to take stock in that stuff-”

“Hardly,” Ezra interrupted. Normally he’d be offended at someone taking a jab at him, but he was distracted. He was recalling his and Crowley’s collision with more clarity. “It was mine, too.”

“ _You’re_ a Libra,” Crowley lifted a languid eyebrow, disbelieving. “Okay.”

“No. Well, yes. I mean, I am, but I mostly meant...I wrote that horoscope. I write all of them. For the paper.”

“No,” Crowley looked scandalized. “That’s a lie.”

“Most definitely not.”

“You write the stuff for the Celestial Observer.” The doubt in his voice was plain. “You’re the horoscope guy. The predictions guy. The one who does readings for clients.”

“Well. Yes.”

“If you are, and I’m certainly not saying I believe it, how do you get them all right every time? There’s gotta be some trick.”

“There’s no trick, I assure you. They...well, I just _know_.”

“You just _know_ ,” Crowley repeated, lip curling in wicked amusement. “Right.”

“It’s clear you don’t believe me, I am well aware there are skeptics, but I truly-”

“There’s no use in pretending to _me._ If you’re not really psychic you can just say so. I’m not an idiot.”

Ezra paused, feeling ruffled and off balance. For some reason, he felt the need to defend his honor, even though he normally kept the truth close to his chest. Something about Crowley seemed to rile him. “I am legitimate, I assure you.”

“That’s what a fake _would_ say,” Crowley leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “I can tell you’re a fraud-”

“Now, really-” Ezra began, but Crowley cut him off.

“-because _I’m_ a legitimate psychic, and it takes one to know one.”

Ezra narrowed his eyes into crosshair-like focus. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” He popped the “p”, and then reached into the lapel pocket of his very cool black jacket. He produced a thick paper business card, and with a smug expression, slid it across the table to Ezra. “I wouldn’t lie.” 

The card was minimalist in design with raised burgundy text, which read:

**ANTHONY J. CROWLEY**

**RESIDENT PSYCHIC**

**INFERNO HOTEL AND SPA**

**a.j.crowley@dantemail.com**

Ezra peered down at it, then flicked his eyes up to Crowley’s face. “Anyone can have fake business cards made. And even if that _is_ your job, there are no powers involved; you probably just con people and take advantage of their vulnerability. I’ve met your type. Ghastly business, absolutely soulless. How do you sleep at night?”

“Blissfully. I don’t con people, I don’t _have_ to. That’s my point.”

Ezra responded with a skeptical, owlish little huff. “That’s what a fake _would_ say,” he echoed. 

At this point, he expected to be met with frustration, but Crowley merely drained the rest of his cider and sighed. 

“We’re at an impasse, then. Opposite sides,” he sighed melodramatically. “Enemies.”

“Do you know, I’ve never had an enemy before,” Ezra said mildly, spreading lemon curd on his scone. “Now seems like an excellent time to start. Thanks ever so for your contact information. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

“Mnyeah,” grunted Crowley. But he didn’t get up from the table. Instead, he pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, and stared tight-lipped, clearly thinking hard, as Ezra polished off his scone and drank the last of his cocoa.

The silence was a no-man’s-land. Thankfully, Anathema split it as she came back from her break, ducking her head to hide her blush, and donning her apron again. Ezra gave her a miserable thumbs up, which she returned cheerfully.

Finally, Crowley had his battle plan. “Ezra, was it? Ezra. Mmm. Tell me this - if I’m not a psychic, how did I know your drink order?”

“Lucky guess, as you said.”

“Or how I know you’ve had that coat for ten years?”

“A man of fashion like you would be able to tell the last time the style was in vogue.”

Crowley’s head tilted slightly. A change of tactics. “What could I possibly say that would convince you?”

Ezra froze, not sure how to respond. People exhibited psychic gifts in a myriad of ways; it could be many things, but how to articulate-

It was then that his phone chimed. He drew it from his pocket like a sword from a sheath, and noticed Gabriel had emailed him...with redlines.

He leaped to his feet in alarm, already gathering his things. He swiped Crowley’s card from the table, pocketed it, and adjusted his bow tie. “I need to go! Excuse me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley; may we meet on a better occasion, and,” he added, perhaps being a little too petty, “may your next horoscope be nice and accurate.” 

He cleared his dishes to the washbin, and was already running out the door before a mindboggled Crowley could bluster through any kind of intelligent verbal response.

If Ezra had stayed only a moment longer, he would have heard Crowley try to stop him. “Wait! You forgot-”

But the glass door closed, trapping the words in with him. “-your coat.”


	2. campfire and cocoa

**\- October 8, Continued -**

Crowley stared at the window in silence for a long time, even after Ezra could no longer be seen hurrying up the street. He was only brought out of his brooding thoughts by Anathema, who set down something opaque and green in front of him in a tiny little glass.

“On the house,” she said.

Crowley didn’t even ask what it was. He took it like a shot, and regretted it instantly.

He choked, gasping and spluttering. “What _was_ that?”

Anathema gave him a brittle smile. “Wheatgrass,” she said. “Does wonders for your health, actually. It’ll clear out whatever’s ailing you, including your bad mood.”

“Does it cure irritation with fake psychics?” Crowley grumbled.

“I wouldn’t know, Ezra’s the real deal,” she said with a wink.

As if to punctuate this point, the wind outside gusted hard against the window, slapping a fragment of a newspaper up against the glass at Crowley’s reading height. It was the Celestial Observer’s horoscopes, complete with “BY EZRA FELL” in the top corner. In the brief moment it was in front of his face, he ticked off every bit of the Libra message - all spot on. Right down to the wheatgrass. 

Great. 

“Ugh, fine,” Crowley groaned, both to Anathema and to the universe at large. “If you’ll excuse me, cafe girl, I have some investigating to do.”

He stood, begrudgingly grabbed Ezra’s stained coat from off the empty chair, and hastened out the door. He tucked his face into the white fabric to burrow away from the icy wind until he reached the entrance to the Underground, trying very hard not to notice the specific cologne that lingered on the fine wool.

Crowley had dreamed about that very same scent last night: campfire and cocoa, blazing and sweet. He always had the most curious dreams, after all. They had a rather unusual habit of coming true.

When Crowley made it back to his flat, he tossed the coat onto the kitchen counter and stared at it for a while.

He didn’t _like_ doing Readings unless it was at someone’s request. 

From people’s possessions, he could tell what they _wanted_ , whether it was lemon curd or hot chocolate or whatever else. It ranged from material to metaphysical wants - to not be alone, to win the lottery, to travel to Paris. Anything and everything. It was a lot of personal information, and Crowley never had to ask, it just came up of its own accord if he got too close to someone.

He made a point of _not_ doing that, if he could help it. It was a sure-fire way to find out things you wished you hadn’t, and it opened up a certain intimacy, however one-sided, that he loathed.

But if he was going to figure out anything about Ezra’s true nature, as well as get the coat back to him, this was really all he had. Did Ezra even _have_ any dirty laundry in the first place? He always seemed so prim and proper, how could he have any secrets Crowley might find alarming?

There was no business card, no expectation they’d run into each other unless they both went to that charity event, which was…impossible. He had only the knowledge that Ezra wrote for the Celestial Observer, which was true if his byline could be believed, but even his success with the column could be explained without psychic abilities. 

Perhaps they just gave Ezra a figurehead role, used his name on the column, and then auto-generated the content. Everyone knew horoscopes were written by bots at this point. That was the only reason they were consistently correct: artificial intelligence using accumulated personal data, plain and simple.

Therefore, if Crowley showed up at the Celestial office looking for Ezra, it was unlikely he’d even be there. The man was probably at home right now, laughing at pulling one over on him.

“ _May your next horoscope be nice and accurate_ ,” Crowley mimicked to himself. “Prat.”

There was also Ezra’s assertion that Crowley wasn’t a legitimate psychic, which rankled. He had too much pride to admit this was one of the main motivations for his sudden willingness to use his _talent_ , as much as he hated the word. But it was; he felt this insane urge to prove himself to this irritating, fussy figure who so quickly wrote him off as ordinary. 

Now, anyone might have thought Crowley was an enthusiastic defender of the psychic community, seeing that he himself was one. But the truth of the matter was that he genuinely believed himself to be the _only_ legitimate psychic. Crowley knew how easy it was for people to defraud each other, persuade them they knew intimate details of someone’s life or could see Into The Beyond. 

He was not the type to believe man was innately good, because manipulating and taking advantage of people searching for mystical answers was, to be frank, too easy. And if that was the case, what need was there for legitimate gifts like his if everything could be accomplished the same through more underhanded means? 

Crowley was an aberration, a misprint. That was all.

When he finally felt up to it, he took off his sunglasses, leaned in close, and finally let himself physically and psychically examine the coat. 

He bent close to one of the creamy white sleeves. The fabric was subtle but expensive, probably tailored to fit the wearer exactly. There was a golden aura glimmering off of the fibers at the hems, and when Crowley narrowed his eyes, he saw what it was trying to tell him. 

Images unfolded in his mind of Ezra pulling it on, fussing with the buttons, walking around in it. A little voice in the back of his head narrated: _Ezra loves this coat. He fidgets with this sleeve. He’s replaced the buttons several times. He bought it from a kind old lady named Jubilee, and they are still friends. Ezra takes her soup when she’s ill. He does Readings for her every Saturday, and they have cucumber sandwiches…_

Crowley felt himself going deeper into the Reading and pulled back. “Show some restraint, he’s not a mystery novel,” he scolded himself. And yet, he was curious.

He examined the empty pockets, and another aura, blue this time, spiraled out. The accompanying images were of well manicured hands, a supple leather wallet, an Oyster card, a couple pens. There was a smudge of black ink on the inside of the fabric, probably from a newspaper. A grocery list, but items with dashes next to them, labeled with different names. _Hibiscus tea - Julio Apt 219, condensed milk - Sgt Shadwell Apt 218, liver - Potts Apt 216…_

Unbidden, the aura offered a conclusion: _Ezra wants to make people happy. He desperately wants to do good. He cares about people. He knows what they need, he just knows._

Crowley recoiled like a snake, shaking away the visions. He shoved his sunglasses back on like a shield - no more of _that_ , thank you. 

The last thing Crowley needed was proof good people existed, because he’d have to reframe his entire perspective, and that would be incredibly inconvenient.

And the last thing Crowley expected was the niggling doubt, the tiny mustard seed of an idea, that Ezra might just be psychic after all. Not just a good person, but a real psychic. 

It was too much - he rejected the possibility immediately. 

To reestablish control of his thoughts, Crowley did the only thing someone as clever and stupid as him would do. 

“I’ll prove you’re a fraud, Ezra Fell. I’ll prove it. Just you wait,” he announced to his empty room. The potted plants near the windowsill judged him silently for his idiocy. But not a single one told him it was a bad idea. They couldn’t; their main function was to photosynthesize.

* * *

**\- October 9 -**

With the details of Ezra’s person now psychically extracted from the stained coat, Crowley did another kind of reading over his morning cup of coffee; he read the laundry care label. He was unsurprised to see it was dry clean only, and decided to drop the coat off at his trusted cleaner’s on his way to work.

The cleaner’s, aptly titled Sergeant’s Stain Removal, sat tucked away from the bustling streets in a seedy alley. It was hilariously grimy, which did nothing to solicit their services to passersby, but the proprietor, Shadwell, had been on his payroll for the last five years, ever since Crowley had gotten him out of a tight spot with a coven of witches who’d been staying at the Inferno Hotel. If one looked past Shadwell’s abrasive demeanor, he was rather indispensable in a fashion crisis. 

Such crises were common in Crowley’s case.

See, Crowley’s job was swanky and rather easy with his innate skill set, but it had an unfortunate drawback. As a resident psychic for a famous supernatural hotel, he reached a certain kind of clientele; the type that was mainly misguided widows or divorceés finding out difficult truths about their ex-partners. Crowley, as the deliverer of these bad tidings, was compensated handsomely, but also frequently had beverages thrown in his face.

Over the years, he’d switched to wearing as much black as possible, but his clothes took a beating and as such, Shadwell and his figurative army of cleaner employees were experts at ridding his expensive shirts of any scourges.

“Another one?” Shadwell asked when Crowley approached the counter.

“Yep. Not mine, it’s um...a friend’s. Rush job, if you’re able.”

“Aye, cost ye extra, laddie.”

“‘S fine.”

“There’s nae...witchcraft involved with this one?”

“None,” Crowley said, handing him the coat along with a crisp bill from his wallet. “Just a cider stain. Please be careful, I’m pretty sure the owner would combust if something ruined it for good. He’s wound tighter than his pocketwatch.”

“Never fear. Tw’ll be ready tonight, Mr. Crowley.”

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered, and to avoid touching the dirty door handle, swung his hip to open it.

He walked to the nearest Underground station and caught a train to the hotel. Once safely boarded, he reluctantly opened up his news app to the Celestial Observer and checked his horoscope, swaying with the familiar lurches of the tube stops.

Checking Celestial’s horoscope column was a routine for him, it had been for a few months, but now, it felt even more personal now that he’d met the author. He scowled down at the screen, looking for Libra.

_Libra: Your heart is hard today; perhaps you need to shake yourself out of this mindset. Reach out. Attempt a good deed, perhaps, or contact a friend. You’ve already started to clean away your grudges, Libra friend; follow through and they’ll clear both your conscience and your mind._

Crowley stared at it, disbelieving. “Seems like a tall order.”

He was wrong, of course. One simply did not pay to have an expensive coat rush cleaned for a self-professed enemy. Caring wasn’t spiteful.

At least, not deep down.

* * *

Work for Crowley passed as it always did. He sat in an imposing armchair, plied clients with beverages from the bar, and Read people. He told them deep truths because they paid him to, and then listened as those same people called him a liar and a fake, cried, threw objects, et cetera. It was fine, really. He was fine. The idea that he was not, in fact, a liar was like a shield he used against such attacks. 

But then, why did it bother him so much to hear Ezra make the same accusations?

At the end of his shift, he walked to the private bathroom and peeled off the black shirt that was now covered in the contents of his last client’s expertly mixed cranberry concoction. He had it in mind to have a word with the bartender about making sweet, red drinks; it was getting a bit mean at this point. The constant dry-cleaning bills were eating into his paycheck, and his skin always held onto a stickiness that all the sink showers and wet wipes in the world couldn’t get rid of.

He pulled on his change of clothes - black again - and returned to his desk inside the minimally decorated Psychic Lounge, an offshoot of the hotel’s spa floor. He deposited the damp shirt into his For Shadwell laundry bag and grabbed his leather jacket from its hook.

But before he could leave, his secretary, Eric (was it Eric? He’d had several over the last couple years, they all looked the same to him, and they all _looked_ like Erics), bounded over to his desk. “Wait, Mr. Crowley. You have a delivery.”

“A what?” He hadn’t gotten a delivery since April, after he’d gotten the snake tattoo just below his temple. Someone in the office thought it would be a hilarious joke to send him a snake Beanie Baby, and nobody confessed to the prank until Crowley broke the cappuccino machine on purpose and refused to fix it until someone came forward. Thankfully, Hastur owned up to it eventually, but not before they’d all gone a week without caffeine, which felt like an eternal torment.

He still kept the little snake - named Caduceus - in his desk drawer, but no one needed to know that. Crowley had a reputation for being a little beastly, yes, but that didn’t mean he had to actually be a monster. Besides, the snake would make a nice gift for little Warlock; might even earn Crowley the superlative Nanny Of The Year. 

He had never told anyone about his secret second job as a nanny, _especially_ not his gross coworkers. And, if he got his way, he never would. It would undermine his mysterious and dangerous vibe, and he couldn’t have that.

“A delivery. A gift from some guy. White curly hair, fussy little outfit.” Eric held out a white and brown tartan style umbrella, which had a prim little cardstock note tied to the handle.

“He came while you were with a client and dropped this off. Friend of yours?”

“Uh, more or less. Thanks. I’ll, er, take it off your hands.” Crowley took hold of the umbrella as if it was a dangerous parcel counting down the seconds to a massive explosion. Based on the frankly alarming lavender aura of spite coming from it, this wasn’t exactly an exaggeration. He held it away from him by his fingertips, and Eric stepped away to answer a ringing phone.

Crowley stayed where he was, examining the note.

_For Mr. Crowley - tomorrow it shall rain, and you’ll be glad you’ve got some shelter! A fraud would tell you the sun’ll be out, just as the weather reports say, but luckily for you, I am not such a one._

_Yours,_

_Ezra Fell_

Upon reading this, his face went through a series of acrobatic and expressive developments until it settled on bewilderment.

“He’s barmy. It’s been nice all week, ‘s not gonna rain,” he muttered to himself. And yet he tucked the umbrella under his arm, however begrudgingly, just in case.

He waved a fake-cheery goodbye to his coworkers, Hastur (a faux psychic) and Ligur (an ex-con). They didn’t look up from their computers, where they both were busy swindling vulnerable elderly people into paying for a _Live Videochat With A Psychic, Your Answers Are Here!_ session on some questionable dream interpretation website.

A little voice in Crowley’s head spoke, unbidden. _Ezra would never do that. He takes his psychic gifts seriously._

Ezra, he told the snide little voice, wasn’t a real psychic, and they hardly knew each other. Who was he to speculate on what Ezra would or would not do?

When he stopped by the cleaner’s on his way home, he exchanged his bag of clothes for Ezra’s coat, now cleaned and spotless, with no stain in sight. It was pure as fresh fallen snow, and wrapped in a waterproof garment bag to protect it from the London dirt that eventually sullied everything. Shadwell had outdone himself; the coat was almost too bright for Crowley to look at directly, even with his sunglasses on.

Crowley brought it home with him and hung it on the coat rack near the kitchen, where it proceeded to haunt him like some fluffy specter for the rest of the evening. 

It was there when he removed his sunglasses, put on the radio, and cooked dinner. 

It was there as he ate and paid bills and cleaned his kitchen. 

It was tempting to re-examine it, to bask in the blue and gold auras that beckoned him.

He couldn’t let it stay here, it would have to go. But how was he going to get this back to Ezra anyway?

The only lead he had was Anathema, and he’d thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of her already. He wasn’t keen on repeating the experience.

He sighed to himself. It looked like he’d have to start with the Celestial Observer after all. He closed his eyes, picked up his phone, and dialed at random. It was a fun little trick he found to be one of the perks of his psychic abilities; he’d never had to look up a phone number. Somehow, he always found exactly who he needed to speak to.

* * *

Ezra sat at his desk, watching the minute hand drag itself up the clock face at an excruciatingly slow speed.

He was stuck. This rarely happened when he was writing horoscopes, but for some reason, Virgo was giving him trouble. He closed his eyes, thinking hard. All he got for Virgo when he reached out into the Other Plane was the image of a gigantic octopus (or squid?), which held no psychic relevance as far as he could tell. Oh well. He’d just have to trust the Universe and hope nobody thought it was a joke. He typed:

_Virgo: Beware the Kraken._

Ezra stared at the words, raising an eyebrow. This was ludicrous, but evidently not every part of the Universe’s Ineffable Plan was meant to be understood by him. She worked in mysterious ways. “Very well,” he said, imagining he was talking to Her. “If that’s what you want.” She’d never led him astray so far.

Still. A kraken…”Great, big bugger,” he mused.

The ancient, dust-covered phone at his desk rang. It startled him so much he accidentally put his elbow on the keyboard, turning _Kraken_ into _Krakenkagla;djn._

He answered the call carefully, cradling the corded receiver with both hands. “Hello?”

“Ezra? ‘S that you?”

“Who is speaking?” he asked, mentally planning his “I’m not interested, please remove me from your call list” speech.

“It’s Crowley. We met the other day. Wanted to say thanks for the umbrella, even though I’m not gonna need it. Frankly, I’m shocked you deigned to come all the way to my hotel, didn’t think you’d want to associate with it. Anyway-”

“-How did you get this number?” Ezra demanded. He pulled up the phone in his distress, and the entire base scooted forward. He reached for the phone-to-wall jack, gave it a tug, and was unsettled to find- “This telephone’s not even plugged _in_!”

“Psychic. Remember?”

“This isn’t psychic, Crowley, it’s _impossible_. How...Why are you calling me?”

“Got something of yours, you’ll want it back, Where can I meet you?” The voice on the other end was irritatingly cheerful.

“You can’t, and you won’t. Goodbye.” Ezra hung up the phone, and shoved it away from him for good measure. He was so upset for reasons he didn’t understand that he had to take a walk around the building until he finally came back to himself. In that time, he texted Anathema to tell her what had happened.

Ezra had never really gotten the hang of texting the way he probably should have; he still had a tendency to type with his index finger, defiantly pressing illusory keys and squinting at the tiny screen. But it got the job done, and who could fault him for being a smidge old fashioned?

Anathema replied with a series of unhelpful messages pontificating on Crowley’s character.

**6:15 PM**

**Azi he’s not that bad. He’s like. idk. one of those snakes that looks really scary but ends up being a total sweetheart! Give him a chance.**

**6:17 PM**

**You know I read his mind. he seems like the real deal. I told him you were too but i don’t think he believed me.**

**6:17 PM**

**That phone trick is seriously cool though, i wonder if he could teach me that.**

Ezra pecked out he reply with one finger in the elevator back up to his office.

**6:25 PM**

**Dear Anathema,**

**You only say that because you still haven’t gotten Newt’s number. Just ask him already, he talks about you incessantly. He’s neglecting his part-time job scheduling clients for my Readings because he is too busy gushing about you.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra Fell**

**6:26 PM**

**Azi you of all people should understand psychics must take their time; I know newt and i are destined but does he? No!! You can’t just drop that on someone like a piano. It’s got to be organic.**

**6:27 PM**

**Also Newt told me he broke another one of your phones. What is up with him and technology? It hates him or something lol. No wonder he loves working at the shelter. No computers, just fluffy animals.**

**oh my stars that’s cute**

**6:28 PM**

**Ok i have to close now but i’ll see you at 7 at my place**

**6:30 PM**

**Dear Anathema,**

**I will be there at 7 for curry and telly. Ground rules: no talking about Crowley, and no Reading me. I promise to do the same.**

**Mind how you go,**

**Ezra Fell**

When Ezra returned to his desk, he corrected the kraken keysmash and wrapped up his work with an extreme, overcorrected focus. The old haunted phone did not ring again.

* * *

After the events of the phone call, Crowley felt rather delighted. He even cackled to himself. But then he realized he was back at square one, and the coat was still hanging there in his flat. This sobered him significantly. He spent an embarrassingly long time coming up with a new tactic, but he _did_ come up with one that would probably irritate Ezra the most.

He pulled out his phone and made another call. He spoke to a bumbling assistant whose phone kept emitting loud error tones, so it took an hour longer than it should have, but in the end, he got what he needed for the next step in his plan.


	3. wine and tiramisu

**-October 10-**

_Weekly Horoscope Review for October 10, Published in the Celestial Observer_

_Libra: Open the door._

* * *

In the morning, Crowley specifically did not open his blackout curtains to look outside. He was hedging his bets it’d be sunny and he’d prove once and for all that Ezra was a fraud. He didn’t need the silly tartan umbrella, and it wasn’t as if an un-stylish eyesore could be used as a fashion statement, at least not by him. No, it was going to be nice weather today, he knew it.

Crowley went through the motions of getting ready for work, and was sure to grab Ezra’s newly cleaned coat on his way out.

He twisted the doorknob and swung it inward, only to be met with an intense spray of rain- it was absolutely pouring. It was raining so hard, in fact, that drops hurtled to the pavement outside and at once sprang back upward, inconsiderately soaking into his snakeskin shoes.

Crowley let out a keysmash of syllables to the tune of an operatic aria, growled, and slammed the door closed. He stomped over to where the stupid tartan stupid umbrella was propped up innocently against the stupid wall, and he picked up the stupid thing. He wrenched the door open again, pressed the little button on the handle, and it unfurled majestically into the storm. Crowley lifted it above his head, locked his door, uttered a few choice curses, and marched to the Underground station.

On his way, he passed a gigantic poster for Kraken Insurance Company, with a huge picture of the mythical creature strangling a ship and the caption: THEY WEREN’T INSURED, WILL YOU BE?

He paid it no mind at first, but he did sort of notice when the poster peeled away from the rainy brick wall and blew into traffic. Amid the honks and squealing of brakes, he could see a few distressed auras glowing from the nearest commuters. “Bad day to be a Virgo, I guess,” he muttered to himself, and kept walking.

His bad mood lingered, fed in a circling loop by the continuing rainstorm, and then exacerbated by the unamused shock he received when he read the day’s horoscopes. When Hastur and Ligur both entered the office completely soaked, he couldn’t even take pleasure in their misfortune.

Over time, however, his thoughts tunnelled only to the apprehension (or perhaps excitement) he had over his appointment after work this afternoon. By the time his shift was almost over, he was so antsy and unfocused that a client actually asked if Crowley was channeling the deceased.

“Sir, ’m not a medium,” he snapped in reply. “I don’t do that kind of work, you’ll want to try Potts’ Peculiars, just across the street if you’re looking for a proper seance. We can’t do those here at the hotel, too much liability.”

“I thought Miss Potts pursued a, um, more discreet line of work,” the man mused clumsily.

“She dabbles,” Crowley said with a lifted eyebrow. “Good to hear you’ve already made her acquaintance. Now, if we can discuss my fee…”

When it was finally time to leave, Crowley couldn’t escape fast enough. He didn’t even shield himself from the looks Hastur and Ligur were giving the tartan umbrella and dry cleaner bag he was holding. He had somewhere to be.

The address Ezra's bumbling secretary had given Crowley brought him to a tiny little office space that shared a front entrance with an old bookshop. There was a little placard on the door announcing that yes, this was Mr. Fell’s office. There was also a light above the door with two bulbs - one green and one red, as one might see in a church confessional.

The red light was on, indicating there was a client within, so Crowley sat on the bench across from the door, laying the coat and the umbrella beside him, intending to leave this place without both.

The waiting area here was fully ensconced between tall shelves of what were clearly Ezra’s own books, and was rather dimly lit, though that might have been exacerbated by the fact that Crowley kept his sunglasses on. It was warm and quiet here in the shadows, a nice reprieve from the storm outside. If Crowley hadn’t been filled with a weird kind of excitement over seeing Ezra’s face when he opened the door to find Crowley there, he might have become rather sleepy.

To pass the time, Crowley reached for one of the books and opened it, wondering what sort of literature a fake psychic would enjoy.

It turned out to be a Bible. The title page was inscribed with loopy writing proclaiming it _Property of Ezra Fell._ There was a page marked with a tab and Crowley turned to it, still curious. The line the tab pointed to had a delightful little typo in it. 

A misprint. 

He pulled his sunglasses down his nose to inspect the auras. Rather than the expected red of irritation, the book yielded a faint pink glow indicative of the owner’s appreciation. A cursory glance at the rest of the books told him the rest: _Ezra collects misprint Bibles._

Well, that was...charming, but it wasn’t like he was going to admit it. He pushed his glasses back up, closed the book, and shelved it again. He tried to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. He _knew_ better than to Read things only to satisfy curiosity. It was a Pandora’s box. Why did he keep doing this to himself?

After a few minutes, the red light bulb switched to green and a familiar woman opened the door, laughing over her shoulder. “You old silly,” she was saying. “I’ll tell him you said hello, and look for the save-the-date shortly. It’s all thanks to you, after all. Have a good afternoon.”

“You as well, Miss Potts, toodle-oo,” came the cheerful reply from inside. 

Crowley was mouthing _toodle-oo?_ to himself before he realized that standing in front of him was Marjorie “Tracy” Potts, of Potts’ Peculiars. She was...Ezra’s client? What would a renowned (though still fake) medium want with him?

Tracy shut the door behind her to allow Ezra time to prepare for his next client, then turned to walk away. Crowley gave her a nod of recognition, which she returned with polite friendliness. 

They’d only met a handful of times at “mixers” hosted by the hotel for its “supernatural department” and the surrounding network of London area psychics and mediums. She probably didn’t know him by name, but he knew who she was. There were rumors she’d once channeled an actual angel at a seance, but Crowley thought this was complete hogwash. Still, at least she was one of the better frauds; she at least gave a portion of her earnings to worthy charities.

Without a word, Tracy disappeared into the shadows of the bookshop. He stood from the bench, grabbed the coat and the umbrella, and waited for Ezra to open the door.

He felt rather awkward standing there, and wondered if Ezra was making him wait on purpose. But when he’d made the appointment, he’d used a fake name, so the chance Ezra was expecting him specifically was low.

Sure enough, Ezra finally opened the door with his eyes still glancing at his notepad. “Hello. Mr. Janthony, is it?”

Then Ezra’s eyes left the page and met Crowley’s sunglasses. His expression, which had been brimming with politeness before, immediately transformed into shock and annoyance.

“Crowley?” he stammered. “You can’t come in, I’m afraid, I’m expecting a client.”

“I _am_ the client,” Crowley said, and gave his most innocent snake-in-the-grass smile.

“You’re...Mr. Janthony.” Ezra looked at his notepad again, then put a hand to his eyes. “I should’ve known.”

“Yup,” he smirked. “So can I come in, or are you gonna make me stand out here? Look, I brought your coat. And your umbrella, which, um, thanks. For that.” Was he buttering up Ezra as part of his plan? Certainly.

“My...coat?”

“Yeah, you forgot it at the cafe. I had it dry cleaned. Not a stain in sight.”

Ezra looked at the coat, at him, back at the coat, and then back at him. His expression softened ever so slightly, and he begrudgingly opened the door wide enough to let Crowley pass into the room. 

“I...thank you,” he said, sounding bemused and a little bit impressed. “That was very kind of you.”

“Kind’s a four letter word, ’m not kind,” Crowley muttered as he handed the garment bag over, but there was no bite to the words. He surveyed the tiny little room, which was lit by twinkling lights and had two cozy overstuffed armchairs and a coffee table between them. The entire setup was angled to face a little fireplace.

Ezra hung the coat up on the hat rack, closed the door for privacy, and then took the farthest chair, where a cup of cocoa already sat steaming on the table beside it. “So...why are you here, Crowley? You didn’t have to make an actual appointment just to return this to me.”

“Yeah, well, after our lovely phone chat, how else was I supposed to get your coat back to you?” Crowley sat down in the other armchair in a dramatic windmill of limbs. “Besides. I want you to Read me.” He slid a ten pound note across the coffee table, and eagerly watched Ezra’s face turn. 

He didn’t look irritated, though. He looked...offended. “My dear fellow, I don’t charge for my readings!”

Crowley stared.

“They’re free.” Ezra elaborated. “I give them away to people who need them.”

“You _what_?” he demanded, unable to conceal his amazement.

“Take your money back,” Ezra insisted, “I can’t take it, it’d bother me all afternoon.”

He put the money back in his wallet, feeling a little shocked. “Okay. Well. Right. Then. Er.”

“Do you still want the Reading?” Ezra asked, finally looking a little unsure.

Crowley felt thrown completely off balance, but tried very hard not to show it. “Yeah, sure, hit me with your best shot.”

“Very well,” he sighed, and sat forward with his elbows on his knees. Crowley noticed then that their chairs were not very far apart; Ezra was uncomfortably in his space, and had his blue eyes taken on an x-ray quality, or was that just his imagination?

A dull pain started to form in his left temple, the same kind he got sometimes when he ate something cold too quickly, or when he was Reading a very annoying client at work.

“What are you going to do?” he said, hoping to deflect some of the intense attention Ezra seemed to be giving him. “Look in a crystal ball? Tell me my birthday? Ask me if I know anyone named _John_?”

This was met only by an irritable frown, and the cynic inside Crowley cheered.

“Ooooo, wait, I know,” he said when Ezra still continued to silently scrutinize him, “you’ll read my palm, is that it? That’s what it always is with you lot, you like to put on a show.”

Finally, this elicited an eyeroll from Ezra. “Mr. Crowley. If you insist I’m a charlatan, I don’t see how anything I do will change your mind, but if you’d like, I _can_ do all those things if you prefer the smoke and mirrors approach. I was going to suggest we sit here by the fire like civilized people and I can just tell you what I know, rather than make a whole performance out of divining it.”

“Is this what you say to all your clients?” Crowley crossed his arms.

Something in Ezra’s expression became snarky; his lips quirked up just a bit in a bitter smile. “I’ll read your palm then, if it’ll satisfy you.”

“Fine.”

“May I?” Ezra extended a hand. There was a gold ring on his pinky that looked like wings. Crowley _knew_ he’d be subjected to a bunch of strong auras from that ring if he got anywhere near it, and he almost refused, but then he remembered he’d _put_ himself in this position, what had he _expected_? He took a deep breath and held out his hand, palm up.

Ezra took it gently, and his hand was very warm. He traced the indents of Crowley’s palm, “hmm”-ing to himself in a mock-serious manner and sarcastically writing notes in the little notepad he balanced against his knee. 

Crowley resisted every urge to jerk his hand away….or to laugh. Instead, he focused on the sunglass-dimmed auras coming from that ring on Ezra’s finger. They were like tiny cream-colored fireworks, bursting with something like...joy? _He’s happy you came back, he wants to prove himself_ , the littler translator voice in his head announced. Crowley mentally squashed it like a roach under a shoe.

Ezra let go of his hand with a frown and said, “Right. Well. Was that enough, or do I need to sell it more before coming to a conclusion?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, no, that’s good. Just, get on with it then. Tell me what you’ve, er, _concluded_.”

Ezra sat back in his chair and took up his cocoa in both hands, holding the steaming mug under his nose. He looked excessively content, and seemed to be reveling in this moment. Crowley, who by now was regretting this wholeheartedly, just watched and waited, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“To start,” Ezra began after his intentionally lengthy pause, “why don’t you tell me about Warlock?”

“How di-...Nobody knows about -”

“I’m very good at my job, my dear.”

“Are you following me?”

A glint of annoyance shone in Ezra’s eyes, and Crowley decided to dig into it. “Is that what this is? You’re tracking my data? Is that also how you know all my horoscopes before they happen? You’ve got some kind of...of...algorithm. ‘S that it?”

Ezra regarded him blankly. “...Algorithm?”

“Following me, then.”

“Please, if I wanted to follow you, I would have done. But I didn’t _need_ to. I can tell just by looking at you. You’ve got a godson. His name is Warlock, and you are his nanny, aren’t you?”

There was a very long, very cold pause. People could have set up an ice rink on this pause and skated around on it for a whole afternoon. Crowley had never told _anyone_ about Warlock. But it was irrefutably true.

He was currently battling the feeling of being in far over his head and couldn’t think up a defense or a lie. “I only nanny on weekends,” he found himself saying.

“Yes, yes,” Ezra nodded as if he already knew that. “And you’re thinking of bringing him to the Doomsday Ball, that’s very sweet.”

This was a thought Crowley hadn’t even fully formed in his own head. It was as if Ezra had looked inside the primordial soup that was his subconscious and constructed a cohesive plan that he hadn’t even considered on his own yet. And yet, hearing it said, that’s exactly what he was thinking, he just didn’t want this guy to think he was soft. Or _sweet_ . He was not _sweet_.

“Where are you getting that from, where is the evidence for that?” _Evidence._ Always the magic word.

Ezra laughed, a high, clear sound that conjured images of cathedrals, pealing bells, and clinked glasses of champagne. “Oh goodness, you should know better than to ask any psychic for _evidence_ , that’s the whole point. You claim to be a psychic yourself, surely you understand.”

“I only came here to see you at work. I thought it should be pretty obvious by now: I’m highly motivated to prove you’re a fake, see.”

“Mr. Crowley,” Ezra said, and his face became suddenly serious. His tone was a precarious blend of amused and angry. “With all due respect. Is any of the information I have told you about yourself untrue in any way?”

“...No.”

“Did I rob you of any money to do this reading or draw you here by some nefarious means?”

“No.”

“Then how can you possibly suggest I’m a fraud? You asked me to read you, I did, and it was correct. Perhaps if you _had_ such abilities you would understand. Even if you don’t have the _evidence_ to support my findings, surely you can have faith in my powers!”

That, Crowley realized, was the problem. 

Ezra had extracted the truth out of him like a leech. Crowley lacked faith in everyone except himself. If put under duress, he might even admit that he lacked faith _in himself_. He wasn’t sure how this merry little man so keenly hammered home all his deepest secrets and vulnerabilities. Each one had taken too deep a blow, and he felt his emotions springing back in reflex. 

The ache in his temple increased to a throb and he suddenly felt the urge to argue with Ezra. Looking for ammunition, he zoomed in on the aura coming from the bow tie, a deep, cared-for crimson. _He loves_ _wine and tiramisu_ _and velvet._ Hmmm, not what he was looking for. But before he could Read anything more, Ezra’s eyes went wide.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasped, and set down his mug of cocoa. He put a hand to his temple and closed his eyes. “Ah. Forgive me. A moment.”

“Is this another part of the performance?” Crowley snapped, unable to conceal his annoyance.

“No, no. I. Ahh,” he hissed, massaging his temple. “Terribly sorry. Sometimes I get these...headaches. Usually it’s in the presence of other true psychics when we’re both Reading at the same time, but obviously that’s not the case here…”

“ _Excuse_ me, but I am a true psychic!” Crowley exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. “How else would I know the grocery lists you keep for your neighbors? Your coat told me everything. Like, that lady who still eats liver? Who eats liver these days? And how else could I know that you’re secretly glad I’m here? I can tell from your ring, I know it’s mad, but it _told_ me so. But it’s not like you could possibly know what any of this is like. There _aren’t_ any other ‘true psychics’. It’s always been just...just me.”

Ezra regarded him through splayed hands with an expression that was rather like a classier version of “what are you on?!” Then after a few moments, they both seemed to come to the same conclusion.

“You’re _not_ a fraud, are you?” asked Crowley in wonder. “I’ve got this same pain, you know, right here.” He pointed to his temple. “Thought it was just irritation. At you. But maybe ‘s some kind of...dunno, psychic interference or something if we’re both Reading each other. It’s gotten worse since we met, I think. Maybe you are real.”

It was humiliating to say it out loud, to admit he’d been wrong. But for as uncomfortable as Crowley felt, it was nothing to how mortified Ezra looked.

“It brings me no pleasure to admit this. But then...you can’t be a fraud either,” reasoned Ezra, staring at the floor, “if I can trust my own senses. You did tell me from the very start, and I simply ignored it, how uncharacteristically closed minded of me. How _embarrassing_.”

They spent a long time sitting with this discovery. The truth clouded the room; Crowley no longer felt like he _should_ Read Ezra, and had an inkling Ezra felt the same way. Perhaps they were both afraid of it - of looking into the ugly mirror at how they’d handled all of this so far.

He watched the sunset crown Ezra’s curls from where he was silhouetted against the window. The golden light, coupled with the orange aura of shame framing his head, looked like an angel’s halo. 

“What do we do now?” Crowley finally asked.

“Apologize, I should think?” said Ezra, cradling his mug of cocoa again. He looked regretful.

“‘M not great with apologies,” Crowley admitted. “Usually alcohol needs to be involved.”

“The bookshop we’re in also serves as a bar after seven. We could go now.”

“But you have clients.”

“Actually, I have good news for you,” proclaimed the angel. “You’re my last appointment today.”

“Well. I’m tempted.”

“Shall we, then? It seems we have a lot to discuss. I’d love to pick your brain about a few things - how does it all _work_ for you? What do you see? Is it visions? Auras?”

“Save it for after we’ve had some wine,” Crowley grinned. “But I’ll get the secret of your horoscopes out of you yet, mark my words.”

Ezra rose, a real smile on his face for the first time. He crossed to the door and turned back to look at Crowley, who had also stood up to leave. “You do know what they say, keep your friends close…”

“And your enemies closer,” Crowley finished, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “Shall we declare a truce? A treaty to broker our opposite sides?”

“How dare you even suggest such a thing,” Ezra accused, but his eyes were twinkling. 

Crowley didn’t say anything in return. He wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into; things had gone very differently than he’d anticipated. He’d never expected to befriend his enemy, but he found that the part of him that would normally try to resist this sort of thing was dead silent. It’s not like getting a drink would hurt anything. His pride could take the hit.

“Don’t thank me, I did it out of spite,” he finally shrugged.

“Oh, of course. I understand. Why do you think I sent you the umbrella?” Ezra chuckled. He gripped the door handle and opened it with a dramatic flourish. “To me, you were just an insufferable imposter. It was my way of telling you to _get thee gone._ ” He then ushered Crowley through the door with a grin. “After you.”


	4. butter and petrichor

“My point issss….dolphins. Tha’s my point,” Crowley was saying.

They were sitting at a front corner table in the bookshop bar, which was dimly lit by hipster light bulbs dangling from a wrought iron pergola. Shelves of dusty hardcovers sorted by the Dewey Decimal System separated them from the other tables. The windows were a portal out to the dark rainy street, which may as well have been another world, or a deep sea trench.

Dust particles swirled dizzily in the beams of buttery light above, and the bubbly murmurs of other patrons dulled the sharp clinking of glasses at the bar to a more peaceful chime.

The overall setup of this bookshop turned bar made the atmosphere feel fun, homey, and vaguely deviant. It was part of the reason Ezra loved coming here so much. He’d gone from being reprimanded for eating alone in the school library as a child to freely getting drunk with a friend in a bookshop as an adult. It was nice to know things could always improve.

“My dear,” he replied, “dolphins. Are not psychic.”

“But they’ve got the...the things. The clicky...bits.”

“Clicky bits?” Ezra narrowed his eyes suspiciously. They were both a few glasses of wine in and their philosophical discussion had quickly turned into some kind of stumbling, rambling lecture on aquatic life. It was, perhaps, fueled by the fact they were currently seated in section 500: Natural Sciences.

“Y’know,” Crowley said intelligently, snapping his fingers. “The clicks. They use them to find stuff. Fish and obstacles and see in the dark. And. Find other dolphins.”

“Echolocation.” Even under the influence of wine, Ezra had thankfully maintained his pronunciation skills.

“‘S how they commum- communicate. And anyone who’s a dolphin can do it.”

“And this makes them psychic?”

“No,” Crowley declared firmly. “But ‘s maybe how we work. The headache. We hear each other. Same clicks. Same psychic-ness.”

“I see,” Ezra asserted, though his vision was a bit glazed over. “You think we’re like dolphins.”

“I thought this whole time I was the only one. Thought I was a mistake. Shouldn’t have the ability. But if you have it too.” Crowley didn’t seem inclined to finish the sentence.

“If I have it too, it proves you’re not alone.”

“Yeah.”

“But why use it the way you do? Your hotel has a...reputation.”

Crowley shrugged. “‘S a job. ‘S what I do. ‘M good at it. Why do you do horoscopes?”

“It’s a job.”

“Have you ever considered writing stuff for the horoscopes that’s blatantly false? On purpose? Bet nobody could tell th’ difference.”

Ezra reeled back unsteadily. “Out of the question!”

“Why?”

“Because...I don’t know. It would be wrong.”

“Y’know I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

“I know.”

“Dolphins…” Crowley murmured to himself as he glanced out the window, apparently still fixated on the subject.

Ezra sat up a bit straighter, which was an achievement. “Listen, Crowley, I wanted to apologize. When I didn’t believe you before. I was rather rude.”

“‘S fine. So was I.”

“Still. I. Well.” Ezra didn’t know where he was going with this. His “drunk thoughts” were a bit like dead end roads. He’d be all right at first, but then his faculties would abruptly stop working, leaving him stranded in a conversation, fumbling for a map back to intelligence.

“Are we...good?” asked Crowley, suddenly thoughtful. His wine glass was almost empty now.

“You mean are we good people?”

“Well yes, but also, like, are you and me...are we okay? Like, we’re not enemies anymore.”

“Crowley,” frowned Ezra, concentrating hard. He might’ve been past philosophical usefulness at this point. He’d table the first question for when he was sober. “Were we ever actually enemies?”

“Nah,” Crowley smiled into his wine glass. “Liked you the moment I knew your scone order. Nobody likes blackcurrant scones, ‘cept you and me apparently.”

“Yes, how _did_ you know?”

“You’ve got...auras. Little auras, all around you. ‘Nd stuff you own. It’s. Like a halo. They tell me things about you if I get close enough.”

“That’s very sweet,” Ezra beamed. “And it’s like that for everyone around you?”

“Yeah, ‘s why I wear the glasses. Dims it a bit, can get distracting otherwise.”

“So that’s why you wear them around me even when it’s dark. I wondered.” Ezra tilted his head, curls falling over his forehead. “Do tell me if I’m too bright.”

“You _are_ too bright,” Crowley said, and Ezra could see him wincing behind the lenses. “But even if you could do anything about it, you shouldn’t on my account, angel.”

“Angel?”

“Y’like it? Because of the halo?”

“I’ve never had a nickname before.”

“You’d never had an enemy before me either.”

“True,” Ezra laughed. “First time for everything, it seems.”

“Hey,” Crowley said suddenly, and he became very serious. “Question.”

“Yes?”

“What’s it like for you? You have auras too?”

“No, dear boy. Nothing that lovely. It’s more...erm.” He fumbled, feeling slow and too sleepy to give the description justice. “Like, I just get a little impression when I reach out to the Other Plane. And when I look at people, I just...know. It’s small things, inane things. Little...uhm, flashes, yes, flashes. Of emotions, names, plans for tomorrow. And I have dreams that come true. At least, I do when I’m able to fall asleep. Sometimes the dreams can be a bit...much, and to avoid them, I remain awake more than I probably ought to.”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “Dreams.”

“Yes. It’s how I knew I was going to meet you.”

“You _knew_?”

“Not like that! Just. I dreamed about apples and cinnamon. And then you crashed right into me the next day with that cider, and I just knew that was meant to happen.”

“Huh.” Crowley had his mouth agape.

“I am not doing a good job of explaining this while drunk.” It was very important to Ezra that Crowley understand this.

“‘S fine. ‘S not why...Argh. Look. I get dreams like that too. And I had one about you, before we met too. It was about…” He looked like he was straining to summarize it accurately. “Cocoa.”

“Cocoa?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fascinating,” Ezra said, leaning in. “Clearly this was written in the stars. But _why_ would fate put us together? We’ve got to have met for a purpose.”

Crowley frowned. “Purpose?”

“There’s a reason for everything.”

“Maybe the reason is just that we met. Does it have to be more than that?”

“The Doomsday Ball! That must be it.” For some reason Ezra felt this was an incredible revelation. “We need to go to it. Compete in the baking competition. Meet the...er, puppies.” The thought was getting away from him again.

“Why?”

“Because it’s _fated_ , dear boy. You and I both met and got our tickets under peculiar circumstances. And we _keep_ seeing each other - it’s not a coincidence!” He punctuated this by poking the table with his index finger a few times.

“Y’know what, I’ll probably regret agreeing to this in the morning, but sure. Fine. We’ll go. See the puppies and baked goods and stuff.”

“Wonderful,” Ezra clasped his hands together. “It’s settled. Let’s exchange numbers so you don’t call my disconnected work phone next time. Text message me like a normal person. Or, well, as normal as someone like us _can_ be. We can coordinate a time to meet. We’ll need to choose a recipe. To bake. For the competition,” he specified, in case that wasn’t clear.

Crowley didn’t hesitate for very long before agreeing. “Yeah, alright.”

A short time later, they both left the bookshop bar and stepped out onto the rain-fresh pavement. It had stopped pouring, thankfully, but the roads and buildings were still soaked and glimmering with reflections from the streetlamps and neon signs. 

“I live just above this place,” Ezra said quietly. “Just wanted to see you off. Do you live far? Should I call a taxi?”

“Nah, coupla Tube stops away. I only drive when I nanny. Out in the country.”

“I know. You can’t take the Bentley out in central London, not at the speeds you apparently enjoy.”

“Erp,” Crowley jerked back. “I didn’t say anything about my Bentley-”

“Urh. No, you didn’t,” Ezra looked embarrassed at his slip up.

“I keep forgetting you _know_ things. The way _I_ do. This is going to take some getting used to.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be sporting to say how _much_ I know. I’m trying to leave some mystery but...”

“Mnyeah. So you know about the-”

They both finished, “-glitch where any music left in it turns into Queen?”

“Yes,” Ezra added. He awkwardly fumbled for his pocketwatch to consult the time. “I’d love to hear an explanation on how that happened, but perhaps another day. You’d better go, it’s rather late. I’ve kept you far too long.”

Ezra noticed Crowley staring at the pocketwatch, at the auras that were probably kaleidoscoping from it. He also noticed Crowley wrench his eyes away from the secrets they might reveal and focused on the question he’d been asked. 

“Nobody _keeps_ me anywhere, angel. I’m where I want to be.” Even so, he spun on his heel and walked away with a friendly wave. “Night.”

* * *

As Crowley walked to the station along the shining pavement, he mused that it was all quite spectacular, the lovely little constellations of London life. Light and stars were some of the few inscrutable mysteries his gift didn’t unlock for him; he enjoyed that there were some things he’d never truly know.

But sometimes unraveling the unknowns was a good thing. Sharing in the art of being known and understood by a true friend was rarely genuine for a psychic. And yet, he was very much looking forward to following Ezra’s trail of auras, wherever they led him.

* * *

**-October 11-**

_Weekly Horoscope Review for October 11, Published in the Celestial Observer_

_Libra: Your efforts have paid off, enjoy creating the fruits of your labor._

When Ezra woke the following morning, he was grateful for two things. First, that his drunk self had had the foresight to set out a glass of water and a dose of ibuprofen for when he awoke, and second, that Crowley wasn’t here to see him groan in regret at the way he’d acted the day before.

He drank the water slowly, his head pounding. “I asked him to enter the baking competition with me? Oh _dear_ , what was I thinking?”

To Ezra, for whom every pleasant conversation was a potentially life-altering decision to Befriend Someone, it seemed like a massive overstep. He hardly knew Crowley; of what he did know, a lot of it had been colored by a false misconception, divined psychically, or both. He’d thought he hated Crowley, and now that he didn’t have that to fall back on, he found himself at a loss as to how to proceed.

Plus, he was rubbish at baking.

Perhaps Crowley was also having second thoughts. Ezra winced as he remembered telling him to bring Warlock along to the Doomsday Ball. It was far too familiar a thing to suggest to someone he just met, especially since Crowley hadn’t wanted to tell him about Warlock in the first place. 

He’d just reached in and found out about Crowley’s weekend nanny duties like the invasive creature he was. How rude he’d been, in the pursuit of showing off.

If Crowley had any sense, he’d tell Ezra he’d changed his mind and neither of them would ever have to see each other again.

Yes, that was the right thing to do. Give Crowley an out. Ezra reached for his phone on the nightstand, and inhaled sharply when the bright light of the screen assaulted his sensitive retinas.

However, all plans to let him off the hook went out the window when he saw he had four missed text messages from Crowley.

**12:59 AM**

**ok here’s a link to a recipe i thought would be good for the competition**

**> attached link: ** **make your espresso chocolate cake (from food.blog.central.uk)**

**1:13 AM**

**ooh or we could do croquembouche**

**1:13 AM**

**wait no its supposed to be cut with a sword? do you have a sword?**

**7:46 AM**

**ok i’m sorry about last night, i shouldn’t text while drunk. no croquembouche, they’re a PAIN and i seriously doubt you’ve got a sword anyway**

Well then. Perhaps he was worrying over nothing.

Ezra stared at the screen for a while, contemplating his reply. He did chuckle a little at the idea of making a croquembouche, but one glance to the wall where he did, in fact, have a sword hung over the mantle (a long story), told him it probably was a bit too over the top for a charity bake sale.

However, as it happened, he’d dreamed about the perfect thing for them to bake. He typed: 

**8:09 AM**

**Crowley,**

**I do have a sword. But that’s not the point. I dreamed about a recipe, I think it’s a message for what we should do.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

Crowley’s response was immediate.

**8:10 AM**

**YOU HAVE A SWORD?**

**8:10 AM**

**i...may have dreamed about a recipe too**

Ezra frowned as he typed a reply. 

**8:11 AM**

**Crowley,**

**Really? What if it’s the same one? Perhaps we should try sending the idea to each other at the same time to see?**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

Crowley agreed, and they both synchronized their messages to send at precisely 8:14 AM. It was disconcerting to have a conversation like this, testing their skills against each other in a way that was not at all antagonistic. It was...rather nice.

**8:14 AM**

**banana bread**

**8:14 AM**

**Crowley,**

**My idea is banana bread.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

A feeling like warm, joyful vindication punctured Ezra’s fuzzy brain. He’d been thinking for days that Crowley was a fraud, and yet here they were now, absolutely on the same wavelength all along. It was going to be the start of a very wonderful friendship, if Ezra had anything to say about it.

**8:15 AM**

**haha banana bread it is then. want to meet at my place the weekend before to do a practice run?**

With a smile, Ezra sent his reply.

**8:16 AM**

**Crowley,**

**That sounds wonderful. I will bring our ingredients. Perhaps we should add chocolate to the recipe?**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**8:16 AM**

**it’s like you’ve read my mind. i am shocked. you must be psychic.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know it's canon that Aziraphale bakes during lockdown. But nobody ever said he was _good_ at it...and I intend to use that to my full advantage next time.
> 
> Special thanks to Anti_kate, Moondawntreader, and madeofmydreams for their recipe suggestions, from which the croquembouche conversation was inspired!


	5. lemon and rosemary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life has been a bit chaotic lately but rest assured, I will finish this fic. Thanks for your patience, friends. I hope you enjoy!

**-October 31-**

_ Weekly Horoscope Review for October 31, Published in the Celestial Observer _

_ Libra: The nearest and dearest treasure in this world is a friend. Embrace the unexpected, and beware calling unannounced. _

* * *

Their first baking trial ended up being a comedy of errors. It was only eleven in the morning and yet somehow everything had already deviated from the plan.

While Ezra was certain he purchased the correct ingredients and quantities, they somehow ended up with a problematic multiplication-of-the-loaves situation, because they had so much banana bread batter by the end that they made three separate tins worth of their gloopy concoction.

“I promise, I read the recipe,” Ezra assured Crowley, who was too busy laughing, spread-eagle on his uncomfortable-looking sofa. “Did the bananas just  _ expand _ in the mixture? Is that why there’s so much?”

“What’re they putting in bananas these days, eh?”

Ezra got the impression Crowley was mocking him. “Oh,  _ don’t  _ start.”

“I’m looking at the recipe on my phone right now. It is correct, but it says it serves  _ fourteen _ .”

“Well, nobody’s perfect. Now we’ll have extra to share with friends. A treat for Halloween.”

“ _ Fourteen _ , angel.”

Ezra tightened his borrowed apron, resting the knot against his neck. There was a large assortment of aprons hanging from a peg in the pantry, including one that said  _ Psy-CAKE _ tucked away at the back. It’d been a wine-encouraged impulse buy, Crowley told him, and was not meant to be worn around other people, but somehow that didn’t stop Crowley from putting it on anyway. 

Ezra was wearing one with an embroidered snake on it, which he thought was rather cute. 

“You could’ve corrected me at any time, so either you wanted to see me suffer, or you didn’t notice either. You’re a psychic, my dear, didn’t you see this coming?”

Crowley’s head poked up from his position on the sofa. “Oi, could say the same to you. Psychics don’t know  _ everything _ . And I was trusting you’d read the recipe closely.”

“Well, it’s all batter under the bridge now. Are you going to come check on our loaves, or am I on my own?”

“Still got another ten minutes on the timer.”

“Yes, but I like watching them rise.”

Ezra sat down on the hardwood floor beside Crowley’s oven. The radiance of the inside light illuminated his features, and he felt warm and glowy as he watched his creations come to fruition. It was  _ heavenly _ .

After a while, Crowley came and sat beside him, propping up his bendy spine against the white kitchen cabinets.

“I cook a lot, you know,” he said without preamble.

“I presumed so. You have quite a lot of appliances. I know very little about baking, didn’t even know there was such a thing as a stand mixer. You could probably teach me a thing or two.”

“You didn’t already know that about me?”

Ezra looked at him then, properly. Crowley’s sunglasses were on.

“Of course not. I  _ could _ , of course, if I pushed it, or if it came to me on accident, but, well, I haven’t tried to find out more than you’re willing to offer. Not since my first Reading of you.”

“That’s actually something I wanted to talk with you about. I wanted to propose...an Arrangement.”

“Arrangement?”

“I propose we shouldn’t Read each other. Not unless we want the other to. I think we should tell each other things we want the other to know. Y’know, promote trust. Us being friends is going to be really awkward if we already know everything and are just tiptoeing around what we let  _ on  _ that we know.”

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree. My friendships with other psychics are somewhat...strained sometimes, for exactly that reason. Anathema and I have  _ worked  _ at it, so I know it’s possible to combat our gifts getting the better of us. I’m willing to try that, if you are. Find things out the ah, old fashioned way.”

“Anathema!” Crowley yelped. “You don’t mean-”

“She’s a mind reader. Couldn’t you tell?”

“Couldn’t tell if someone was a psychic if they stood in front of me and told me so,” Crowley grinned. “But really. Anathema.”

“Yes.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m suddenly very embarrassed about our first meeting. She probably thought I was an idiot.”

“In your defense, she told me I was too. Kept telling me you were a real psychic. Did I listen? No.”

“She has the patience of a saint. Still miffed at her for making me drink wheatgrass, though.”

“I  _ wondered  _ why that was in the horoscope for the day,” Ezra exclaimed, “that was for you, after all? She left that part out of our conversation.”

“Hmph.”

“Well, anyway, patience is one of Anathema’s best qualities, to be sure. I am sure she’ll be glad we’ve come to an Arrangement.”

Crowley looked at him for a long moment, then turned back to the loaves, which were puffy and golden by now. “I have to confess, I thought you might take more convincing.”

“Oh no, I take things like this very seriously.”

“I...know that  _ now _ .”

“Good. You’re already implementing the Arrangement, I see.”

“Oi, those loaves are done,” interjected Crowley, and at that moment, the timer beeped in agreement. They pulled them out to cool, and Ezra cooed over them, marveling.

“This is what baking is like? Proper baking? It comes out really well in the end! They look...so good. And we  _ made _ it.”

“Ezra, with all due respect, what sort of  _ baking _ have you done where this is a surprise to you?”

“Oh, I’ve tried often. Used to be decent at making the odd biscuit around Christmas when I was young, baking with my family.” Despite his efforts to conceal this, his words took on a melancholy tone. Crowley politely did not point it out. Aiming for a brighter disposition, Ezra continued, “But nowadays, on my own, I get my nose stuck in a book, and I forget, and then it’s burned. If I wasn’t distracted, I’m sure I could make something delicious.”

“Ah.”

They stared at the steaming baking pans for a while.

Crowley leaned a hip against the counter. “Why do you collect misprint Bibles?”

Ezra looked up sharply. “Noticed that, did you?”

“While I was in your er...waiting room.”

“Ah. Well. I suppose I can tell you eventually, but perhaps now isn’t the best time for that deep of a conversation.”

“Fair enough.” And that was that. Crowley didn’t probe any further.

But it was Ezra’s time to ask a question. “What does the ‘J’ stand for? In your name?”

Crowley gave him a devilish grin. “Jarlsberg.”

“It does  _ not _ .”

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday. Guess all you like.”

* * *

After the loaves had cooled, they did a taste test, not only to make sure the bread was, in fact, edible, but also to determine their chances of winning the Doomsday Ball baking competition.

They each pronounced the bread good enough, enjoyed their slices in contented silence, and then began to clean up. To Crowley’s surprise, Ezra insisted on helping wash out the dishes, rolling up his sleeves and standing over the sink with determination and a fresh sponge. Fighting an indecipherable emotion, Crowley hovered over his left shoulder holding a towel, trying to seem useful by drying and putting away everything that came out of Ezra’s industry-level cleaning job.

“How are you this good at this?” he eventually asked, inhaling the scented plume of  lemon-rosemary soap in the air that strengthened with each clean dish.

Ezra didn’t look up from his scrubbing. “I grew up in a large family; it was the done thing.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

Crowley gave a low whistle. “Only child, me. But, _ seven _ . Can’t imagine that, must’ve been...different.”

“Oh yes. Never any privacy. Always some drama or another going on. Never lonely. It had its good moments, but.” This was a sentence Ezra didn’t seem planning on finishing.

There was a sensitive silence interrupted only by the clacking of plates as Crowley carried them to his cupboard and stacked them in place. He blocked his view of Ezra with the cupboard door, not trusting his curiosity to overwhelm him. Sure, the auras could tell him the full story, but he’d rather hear it from Ezra himself. When he felt he could resist the desire to psychically Read him, he closed the cabinet and waited.

Somehow, the silence seemed to have been the right move, because Ezra eventually turned off the faucet and drained the sink, the washing complete. He dried off his hands on a hunter-green towel, stared at the wood floor, and said, “I left home rather young. There were some disagreements between us, and they’ve all but cut ties. I see my godson, Adam, occasionally, and the family for an excruciatingly awkward annual Christmas dinner, but these days I admit I’m rather alone.”

There were a lot of ways Crowley could interpret this. He didn’t really know which question to ask, or what to say. But he understood. To have grown up around so many people, and then to be reduced to a very small pool of acquaintances must have felt isolating. To have had a falling out with someone, yet still miss them was something Crowley could relate to.

It was no wonder he and Crowley ended up getting on so well. They both knew how to be lonely.

“You’ve got Anathema. And your clients, who seem to publicly adore you. And now you’ve got me too - so, lots of friends.” It sounded dumb when said aloud, but it was all he could think of to say.

“Yes, well,” Ezra nodded, looking more reassured than Crowley expected him to. “Yes.”

This felt like the end of the discussion, and after feeling so appreciative of Ezra’s trust to divulge this, Crowley felt like rescuing him with a change in topic. He offered to show off his plants, which Ezra latched onto at once, and the atmosphere in the flat improved significantly.

Once the verdant plants had been properly inspected and admired (although Crowley had drawn the line at  _ compliments _ ), they returned to the kitchen.

“Let’s take these to some of your friends,” Ezra suggested. “I’m sure it’d be nice to distribute these to people who can appreciate a good banana bread. We can’t eat all of these ourselves.”

“Er…” Crowley wracked his brain, trying to think of  _ friends _ he could give these to. A horrible thought was occurring to him - the only person he truly considered his friend was standing right in front of him. Without Ezra, the only person he truly considered at least marginally close enough to friend material was...Shadwell.

Oh well, it’d have to do.

“Right. Friends. Urm. Sure.”

Crowley wrapped the loaves in aluminium foil and Ezra tied each one with a set of orange ribbon he’d brought. He meticulously curled all the string ends with his scissors.

In no time, they had left the flat, with Crowley leading the way to pay a visit to his dry cleaner. He hoped it wouldn’t be weird.

He was wrong.

As they walked, loaves in hand, down the few blocks to the shaded alley entrance of Sergeant’s Stain Removal, Ezra hummed and commented on all kinds of inane things - the chilly air, the slate gray sky, and “look at that dove, Crowley!” - until he stopped short in the middle of the pavement. “Oh,” he said, and Crowley jerked to a halt beside him.

“Mmm?”

“Crowley, I’ve been here before. Those flats, there,” Ezra pointed to the imposing buildings stretching high above the entrance to Shadwell’s laundry lair.

“Know someone that lives there, do you?”

“Several,” he said, and Crowley was not surprised.

“How?”

“Oh, I take them groceries. I frequent the dry cleaner’s just down there, so I’m here often. I had no idea you lived so close. It’s a wonder we haven’t crossed paths before.”

“Hmmm,” said Crowley, and when they reached the door to the dry cleaner, he pulled it open for Ezra.

It was probably a good thing Crowley had been lost in his thoughts as he stepped through the door, because he missed the sight that made Ezra gasp and attempt to turn around. They ended up colliding in the doorway, Ezra’s curls tickling his chin.

It took Crowley a moment to defog his brain - a memory of the grocery lists he’d seen in his visions had been flashing through his mind...and suddenly things started to add up. Shadwell was on that list. And so was-

“Tracy Potts?” he gasped, finally taking in the scene in front of him.

The medium herself was sitting atop the counter in a pink dress and a teal cardigan, and Shadwell was standing beside her, devoid of his suitcoat and red as a beet. His feathery white hair looked distinctly ruffled. There was a deep gray aura of embarrassment around both of them. 

Shadwell wiped a smudge of lipstick off his cheek, cast his eyes skyward, and began to whistle, as if that would erase what Crowley and Ezra had obviously just interrupted.

Madame Tracy hopped off the counter, her sensible heels clacking against the grimy tile. “Ezra? What are you doing here?”

Ezra spun slowly to face her, and there was a tense moment before the two of them started laughing. 

Crowley and Shadwell, however, stared on in bewilderment. In a saving grace, he eventually remembered the banana bread, the entire purpose of a mission that was turning into an increasingly bad idea.

“Here,” he said, handing over the loaves. “These are for you.”

Shadwell eyed them suspiciously. “What’re they?”

“Banana bread. Ezra and I made it.”

The expression on the cleaner’s face was one of deep confusion. “... _ Why _ ?”

“Because. We. Uh, made extra.”

Ezra came to the rescue at this point, looking thoroughly amused. “We’re bringing our extras over to friends. I had no idea this would be such a confluence of worlds! Crowley, Miss Potts is engaged to your friend Shadwell here. Tracy’s an old friend of mine from uni. I set them up months ago when I was here getting the very coat dry cleaned that I ended up leaving in your possession. Didn’t he mention he knew it was mine when you took it here?”

“No, he didn’t,” Crowley said through his teeth. 

Shadwell was too busy thinking this through to notice. All he muttered was, “We’re friends?”

It was foolish to hope Ezra hadn’t heard that, because one glance at the angel’s face proved that he had. Crowey felt himself flush crimson.

“In any case, we’re getting married next month,” Tracy said. “Ezra, you should bring your gentleman friend as your plus one, if you don’t already have one. He seems charming.”

Ezra nodded demurely, but there was a complicated, pained emotion playing on his face.

Crowley deflected the attention with a wave. “Tracy, it was nice to meet you officially. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding. Now that this has been sufficiently awkward, Ezra and I are going to leave you to it, please enjoy the banana bread.”

Feeling off-balance and prickly, he gently spun Ezra around by the arm and they walked to the door.  “Ciao!” he called over his shoulder.

Once the door swung closed behind them, Ezra shook his arm free.  “What was all that about?” he said, folding his arms over his velvety jacket. He looked like a cross professor. “We left so abruptly! You said Shadwell was your friend, it seemed like a surprise to him.”

“I…” Crowley looked at the gum-littered cement, gathering courage. “I don’t actually have any... He’s the closest I could find. Look, can you please just let it go? I didn’t want to admit that, it makes me sound like some sort of -”

“Oh Crowley, I didn’t know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“‘S fine, ‘s fine,” he waved it away, but Ezra’s cool blue eyes looked disconcertingly watery.

“Still, I hope you can forgive me, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Nothing to forgive, angel. I just don’t have the knack for social stuff like you. I don’t like letting people in.”

They began to walk back to Crowley’s flat, pigeons scattering in their wake. Ezra fidgeted with his hands, twisting the ring around his pinky finger.

“Although,” Crowley said after a moment, “it seems like Tracy has some  _ ideas _ about embarrassing you too. What was all that about plus ones?”

“Oh, that,” he sighed heavily. “She’s been trying to set me up as repayment for my introducing her to Shadwell, even though I’ve told her a thousand times it’s not necessary. She’ll probably have a go at tricking us into some sort of, well,  _ situation _ . You know, locking us in a broom cupboard or something. I don’t really have the heart to tell her it's never been like that for me. You’re welcome to come as my friend, though, if you’d like. If that doesn’t put you off.”

They looked at each other then, and Ezra’s eyes had taken on a beseeching, trusting intensity.

“That sounds fine to me. I’m...well, it’s not like that for me either,” Crowley said, and he meant it. 

The mere idea of Tracy staging some sort of elaborate tryst for them made him feel clammy. He’d never really gone in for that sort of thing either. His love life had always been a bumpy road, and being psychic was definitely part of that.

Knowing a person was going to break up with you in three dates’ time, or knowing they had some concerning opinions just from Reading them took a lot of the fun out of the experience. And even if Crowley were so  _ inclined _ , the stuff that followed the dates never really seemed worth it anyway.

Ezra cast his eyes down to the pavement, then back up with a hesitant smile. “You’d better bring a book with you, so you’ll have something to do in case we  _ are  _ trapped in a cupboard, then.”

“Got any recommendations?” 

Ezra smiled, and the tension crowding the corners of his eyes disappeared. He listed a few, and Crowley made a mental note to get a library card. He was a grown man, it was time.

“I wish I could offer you a late lunch at my place,” Crowley said when they reached his flat, “but I’ve got to go meet Warlock in a bit. I’m sneaking him away to carve pumpkins in the garage.”

“I don’t mind, I’m taking Adam to a Halloween party anyway, but thank you in any case. What do you mean you have to  _ sneak _ Warlock away? Don’t his parents want him to participate in festivities?”

“They don’t like giving Warlock free artistic reign with sharp objects. Last year, he got hold of the gardener shears and trimmed all the topiaries into the shape of dinosaurs. Or, well, he  _ tried _ . But defacing pumpkins with velociraptors is encouraged, so.”

“He sounds like a delightful little handful.”

“He’s a right little hellion, ‘s proof I’m doing my job right.”

Ezra laughed, all the nerves from their previous conversation seeming to dissolve into the smoggy London air with it.

“Very well. Have a good time with the pumpkins. I’ll see you Wednesday night to bake the batch and then we’ll head to the Doomsday Ball on Thursday, then.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Ezra didn’t say what for, but he didn’t have to.

**-October 31-**

**7:01 PM**

**Crowley,**

**Is your middle name John?**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**7:02 PM**

**no**

**7:36 PM**

**warlock’s finished with the pumpkins btw**

**> attached photo: ** **velociraptor jackolantern RULES!**

**7:41 PM**

**Crowley,**

**Tell him it looks wonderful. Here is a photo of me and Adam in our costumes. I’m a magician, he is a pirate.**

**Abracadabra,**

**Ezra**

**> attached photo: ** **IMG_6738**

**7:41**

**omg it’s perfect but please tell me you’re not actually going to grow a mustache in real life**

**-November 1-**

**9:14 AM**

**Crowley,**

**Is your middle name Jellybean?**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**9:18 AM**

**HA no**

  
  


**11:47 AM**

**Crowley,**

**It must be Jimothy.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**11:58 AM**

**nopppppe**

**-November 2-**

**11:09 AM**

**Crowley,**

**Jingle. Juliet. Jam. Jörmungandr.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**11:50 AM**

**jörmungandr’s the closest so far**

**11:59 AM**

**i’m kidding in case that wasn’t clear**

**12:00 PM**

**Crowley,**

**Oh good, I** **_was_ ** **going to question that. It seems I’ll just have to keep guessing...**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**


	6. caramel and pear

Baking the final loaves went a lot better than the first time. Having properly read the recipe, Ezra arrived at Crowley’s with the proper ingredients Wednesday night, and they spent the evening baking and discussing everything from Crowley’s Bentley to their Halloween festivities to Tracy and Shadwell.

“I should warn you, they will be at the ball," Ezra added. "Newt works part time at the cleaners and he invited them.”

“Oh wow, okay. Small world.”

“Indeed, I think you and Newt would hit it off. I’ve meant to introduce you two for some time, but Newt works three jobs and he’s rather busy. And exceedingly shy.”

“Understood.”

“Now,” Ezra said, as he greased a baking tin, “tell me about young Warlock, you mentioned a topiary incident last time?”

Thus began a lively discussion of Warlock Dowling’s interest in gardening, dinosaurs, and destruction. Eventually, and somewhat logically, the subject then came round to Adam, so while they waited for the banana bread to cool, Ezra told Crowley about his godson.

“He lives in Tadfield, lovely little place. He’s ten, but his birthday’s coming up, and his parents - my brother’s ex-wife and her new husband - yes, I know it’s complicated - have asked me to take him to the Doomsday Ball so he can choose a dog to adopt from the shelter. As a birthday present. They have puppies in attendance for that specific purpose, and Adam’s gone before so he knows this. I expect by the end of the night he’ll come away with a new best friend.”

“That’s adorable.”

“It rather is. Adam’s a sweet kid. Grew up a tad wild. He’s always stealing apples from the neighbor’s tree. I’ve told him off for it, but he does it anyway.”

“Kids. They do that.”

“You make it sound like Warlock’s a right menace, but it seems to me you’re very fond of him.”

“He’s kind of like me. Puts up a prickly exterior, but on the inside, he’s not so bad. Guess that comes from having practically raised him. His parents aren’t around much. I can relate. Wanted him to have the best childhood he could. I’m probably gonna send him home with an adopted critter too, not just for his benefit, but also to annoy his parents. They need to pay more attention. Warlock’s gonna need someone once he’s a teenager, and I can’t be his nanny forever.”

“Surely you could still visit. You’re a godparent for life.”

“Yeahhhh. S’not the same. I’m trying to savor the time right now where he still wants me around. Still needs me, y’know?”  
  
“I do. And I think it’s admirable. He’s a very lucky kid to have you in his life.”

Crowley put a hand to his heart in mock injury. “Careful, angel, you’ll slay me with all this kindness.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yes, I rather like being alive and grumpy, thanks.”

“Oh, psssh.”

* * *

**-November 5-**

_ Weekly Horoscope Review for November 5, Published in the Celestial Observer _

_ Libra: Illuminate the darkness with words, dear Libras, when all other lights go out. _

At sunrise on Doomsday, Ezra woke with a spring in his step. He tolerated work and Gabriel’s too-high expectations without so much as a frown, wrote faster than he had in ages, and even got a head start on next week’s horoscopes (the view of the Beyond was quite clear today) before leaving early to prepare for the Ball.

He was getting ready to pick up Adam from the train station when Crowley texted him.

**1:55 PM**

**just left the dowlings now. bentley isn’t starting, warlock and i are takin a train, might be a bit late**

**1:56 PM**

**Crowley,**

**Of course. I’m actually picking up Adam from the station, do you want us to wait for you? Don’t forget the banana bread. Breads? Banana breads?**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**1:59 PM**

**maybe? which train is he on?**

**I’ve got the banana breads, don’t worry, they’re in my bag**

**2:02 PM**

**Crowley,**

**Coming from Tadfield, he’ll end up on Bromley South eventually. The 3:32 PM.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**2:08 PM**

**oi that’s the one we’re gonna be on. did you plan this?? psychically??**

**2:02 PM**

**Crowley,**

**No. But the “vibes”, as people say, were pointing in the direction of trains so perhaps this is why. Text message me when you’ve made the switch to Bromley and I’ll pick you up when the train gets in. Looking forward to meeting Warlock!**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**2:05 PM**

**you and your vibes <eye roll emoji>**

**see you at 3:32 precisely, wind that little pocketwatch of yours**

**2:05 PM**

**Crowley,**

**You are insufferable.**

**Also, how do you make emoticons?**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**2:06 PM**

**magic**

**2:09 PM**

**Crowley,**

**I entered it into Google and now know how to make emoticons.**

**< clock emoji> <train emoji> <halo emoji>,**

**Ezra**

**2:23 PM**

**im so proud**

**2:33 PM**

**just swapped trains**

**2:33 PM**

**Crowley,**

**< thumbs up emoji>**

**Ezra**

**2:38 PM**

**we met adam and his sister (or “chaperone”, his words) by the way. he and warlock are getting on like a house on fire and this might have been a mistake. too much power in one room. also are you aware he doesn’t have an aura**

**3:24 PM**

**Crowley,**

**I am aware. Anathema can’t Read him either, and I confess I haven’t ever tried, myself. Sometimes people are just like that. Psychic ability isn’t a science, my dear. Nevertheless, glad those two are getting along. Tell Sarah hello for me, we’ll drop Adam off at the station with her later tonight as planned.**

**Take care,**

**Ezra**

**3:32 PM**

**just pulling in, i see you!**

* * *

The actual Doomsday Ball event progressed with the perfect mixture of fun and chaos. Warlock and Adam abandoned the baking station at Nutter’s ten minutes in, and commandeered the animal shelter’s “petting zoo” with a gaggle of other children their age. Newt was trying to quell some fuss over Harry the Rabbit, and Ezra figured it was best to leave the group to it.

Crowley had helped get things set up, pulling so many things out of the carpet bag he’d brought that it was almost comical. Ezra stared, marveling as he pulled out an entire corkboard featuring their recipe and their headshots. “How’d you get everything in there?”

His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Angel, it’s time you knew. I’m secretly Mary Poppins. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have that off my chest.”

Ezra batted his elbow in mock annoyance, though he was actually rather charmed. “Oh, you.”

Crowley arranged their loaves, garnished with choice greenery, on a couple fine china plates (there was no telling how he got them, or how he transported them safely in that bag of his, but oh well) before leaving to get cups of water from the coffee shop counter. Tracy intercepted him on his way, and from what Ezra could tell, they were starting to get along better at this juncture, because she smiled sweetly at him and he nodded.

Ezra then found himself cornered by a hoard of Tracy’s seance regulars, who seemed keen on interrogating him about Shadwell’s prospects as a good husband. The conversation was arduous and it took a great deal of social prowess to extricate himself, and he only managed it after a whole three minutes of hearing their frankly irrelevant opinions on wedding cuisine. 

Eventually Ezra escaped, and between prayers of thanks and dabs at his temple with a handkerchief, realized Crowley still wasn’t back from getting water. Ezra frowned and scanned the room, but no luck. Ah well, perhaps he’d stepped out for some fresh air. The place was rather busy, Ezra couldn’t blame him.

Tracy intercepted him on his lap around the room. “Ezra, could you be a dear and get us some more plates? The tart station’s running low and poor Reginald can’t leave his booth.”

Ezra made his way to the service closet at the back of Nutter’s, wondering where on earth Crowley had got to. When he walked into the tiny closet though, he got his answer.

Crowley spun around from where he stood under the lone dangling light bulb. “What are  _ you  _ doing in here?”

“Getting more paper plates,” said Ezra, before he realized Crowley was already holding them.

Sunglasses met blue eyes and they had exactly one moment of realization before the door shut behind them and lock clicked. They both heard Tracy giggle through the door.

“How did she manage to get the jump on both of us? We’re psychics. We were  _ expecting _ this to happen,” Crowley groaned.

“At least the light-” began Ezra, already reaching for the copy of Jane Eyre hidden in his custom-large jacket pocket, and then the light above them flickered out. So  _ that _ was what his horoscope had been about. Ah well. Drat. “-Never mind. Can’t read in the dark, I suppose.”

“Angel, are you from the bloody fourteenth century? We have smartphones. They have flashlights.” Crowley sounded amused, and somewhat closer than before.

“Oh. Oh right.” Ezra fumbled for his phone, but Crowley beat him to it. A pale, clinical light illuminated the space, splintering his sunglasses into gray and silver shards. Ezra stared, mesmerized.

“Well. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Ezra held out his copy of Jane Eyre, and Crowley met it with a copy of Dracula because of course.

And then the light promptly went out.

“Bugger,” said Crowley, and there was a small clicking sound, like he was trying the power button. “My battery’s dead.”

“Well if you can show me how to work mine, ah, hang on.” Ezra fumbled for it, but in the switch between pocketing Jane Eyre and pulling out the little device, there was an expensive sounding clatter.

“It fell on the floor, didn’t it.” Crowley didn’t sound surprised at all.

Ezra nodded, then realized nobody could see him do so, and said, “Er, yes.” A quick swipe of the floor with his hands yielded no results, although he did touch something sticky he’d rather not think about.

They both remained silent for a moment, and then Crowley said, “Well, on the bright side, I guess I don’t need my sunglasses in here.”

They both started laughing, and once they got going, they couldn’t seem to stop for a good long while.

* * *

There was no telling how long they spent sitting on the closet floor in the dark, their backs pressed against the shelves, shoes just barely touching. To Crowley, this whole unexpected situation was both extremely awkward and very intimate. The closet was small, and he and Ezra weren’t  _ that _ good of friends yet, not really. There were few people on earth he’d want to spend any amount of time locked in a closet with, and while Ezra was on that list, this was far too soon.

To put his nerves at ease, Crowley decided the best thing to do was talk, so they meandered through a discussion on emojis based on Ezra’s newly acquired literacy. But eventually, there came the silence of a thoroughly covered conversation topic being put to rest.

And then Ezra voiced something that had evidently been bothering him.

“Crowley, it occurs to me that I’ve told you an awful lot about my family, and my history. But I don’t actually know that much about you.”

“‘S not much to tell,” he said. He could worm his way out of any conversation, and was bracing to do so.

“I have to confess, I do know one thing you never told me. From when I Read you that first time. And I’ve felt terrible about holding on to it. Per our Arrangement, I really ought to tell you.”

That man really said  _ per our Arrangement _ . It was charming, even if he was too stressed to appreciate it right now.

“Go on, then, what was it?”

“I know your mother left you. When you were fifteen.”

Crowley inhaled sharply. “Oh.” It was pure reflex, a relic of his expectations for the topic to always cleave into old scars, dredge up old pain, the way it usually did when people asked about his mother. But in great surprise, he found he was ...okay. “Yeah. That. That happened.” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I’m sorry, if that’s something you wish I hadn’t known.”

“Remember, I asked you to Read me, I gave you permission.”

“Still, this feels personal. Too personal for our level of acquaintance, and I want to know how you’d like me to proceed. I can pretend I’ve forgotten, or...or we don’t have to discuss it. But I can’t go any longer without letting you know that I do know.”

Crowley sighed, a deep, fluttering thing. It rattled his ribs on the way out. “I’m glad. It’s always tough telling people, suppose I would’ve gotten around to it eventually, but it’s sort of a mood killer.”

“Of course.”

“‘S a relief, to be honest. Saves me from needing to figure out any more excuses.”

“You don’t have to answer this, but are you...okay?”

Crowley made a warbling  _ I dunno _ sound in his throat. “Was a long time ago. Handled it. Mostly. See, it was just the two of us, and then she left. No trace, just, boom. And all my gifts, all my psychic abilities, couldn’t help me find her. I stopped seeing them as gifts, and more like evidence I was a mistake. I know that’s incorrect  _ now _ , but at the time, I was pretty bitter. Blamed myself.”

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Ezra murmured. “That must have been terrible.”

“I got on with things, you know, as you do, but wounds like that don’t always heal right. I don’t like to let people in. Not after losing someone like that.” There was a pause, and he found himself concluding, “I somehow find you’re the exception.”

There was a sniffle, and then Ezra said in a clotted voice, “I’m very touched.”

“Funny, though,” Crowley said, brushing off the sentimentality, “You left your family to be on your own, and mine left me.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Ezra offered, “we can meet in the middle.”

“I’d like that.” After a moment, he said, “Was that it, then? Any other deep confessions we need to get out of the way?”

“You still haven’t told me your middle name.”

“And you never said why you have a sword.”

“I asked you first.”

Crowley laughed. “Not gonna happen, angel. Not yet.”

“That must mean it’s embarrassing. I’ll come up with a list.”

“You’ll never guess it,” he chuckled, “but fine.”

At that moment, the door unlocked with a click and swung open, blinding them with a shaft of kitchen light. Silhouetted against it was Tracy, who giggled and said, “Well now, that’s thirty minutes, a nice long time.”

Crowley spluttered wordlessly in indignation, taken aback by both the words and her shockingly bright aura of well-meaning joy. He eventually managed to protest, “You were  _ timing us _ ?”

Ezra looked mortified. “Tracy, that’s not at all-”   


“Oh love, I’m kidding, it’s only been a couple minutes. What are you doing sitting here in the  _ dark _ ?” Somehow, this was asked in both a suggestive and concerned tone. She opened the door further, and they stumbled to their feet to make their exodus. Crowley shoved his sunglasses back on.

On his way out, Ezra retrieved his phone from where it had fallen onto the floor.  “The lights burned out, and Crowley’s battery died. I can’t  _ believe _ you locked us in there, that was quite rude.”

“Sorry love, but you know these things, they need a little push sometimes.” Tracy smiled placidly as she handed them each a plate of sweet treats. She must’ve garnered them from the baking competition tables. Crowley lifted an eyebrow. Blatant bribery, though not necessarily unwelcome. 

Judging from Ezra’s expression, the food eventually would soften his anger, but he wasn’t going to let it go just yet. “We would’ve been completely fine without your intervention. And there is no... _ thing _ to push,” he said stiffly. “We’re friends, and that would’ve continued with or without being trapped in a closet. I mean, honestly.”

She inclined her head, and patted him on the shoulder with genuine affection. “Of course, love. Enjoy the nibbles - the pear tart is particularly good.”

Ezra put a hand to his head and glanced around the room. Crowley was beginning to recognize this as his psychic sense going off.

Sure enough, Ezra pointed across the room to the makeshift theater where some apocalypse movie was currently playing on a projector. “Tracy, you’d better go distract the Sergeant, he keeps trying to interrogate Anathema about witchcraft. The poor dear could use a rescue.”

Crowley and Ezra watched her walk away, realizing they were now marooned on a very awkward silence.

They made their way back to their banana bread booth, which now had a yellow rosette ribbon pinned to the tablecloth. The judges must’ve come while they were gone.

“Third place,” Ezra murmured, setting his plate of treats down on the table. 

Crowley followed suit. “Wow. Not bad at all!”

Under the ribbon was an envelope containing two vouchers for a free beverage from Nutter’s. Crowley pulled them out and handed them over to Ezra, who merely said, “How lovely.”

“Are we going to talk about what happened back there?” Crowley leaned against the table to face him.

“With Tracy?”

“Yeah.”

Ezra blushed a deep red. “I’m sorry you got dragged into that, dear boy. I suppose even psychics don’t always have the foresight we should. I never planned for you to be roped up in Tracy’s, er, designs for us. I noticed how uncomfortable you were.”

“I mean, I don’t regret it. I mean, I know Tracy had more, well, salacious intentions for trapping us in there than what we’re actually...than what we wanted. But I still liked talking to you in there. I liked having the chance to. Maybe we did need a push, a little bit. Not the way Tracy thinks, but it was still good for us. To learn about each other.”

Ezra stared at him for a long moment with his head tilted and his expression softened. “You’re right. It certainly wasn’t in the plan, but-”

“Things don’t always have to go to plan, angel.”

“I-I know that. Or at least I try to remind myself of it." Ezra seemed to teeter on the edge of disclosing some secret. Then he dove: "That’s, well, that’s what my Bibles are for.”

“Bibles.”

“The ones on my shelf, the misprint ones,” Ezra fluttered a hand as if he was gesturing to them here inside Nutter's. “It’s predestination, but with some allowance for the unexpected.”

“Eh?” Crowley cocked his head.

“Oh dear, I’m going to botch explaining this. I’ve never really explained it to anybody. Ah. Well. There’s written order in the books, and a design for the universe, things predicted, things seen in advance, things planned for. And here comes a misprint, a little typo. An accident, a surprise, inside something that’s set in stone, as it were.”

“Like screwing up a recipe.”

“Quite.”

“That’s genius, Ezra. How on Earth did you ever come up with that?”

“It was just after I left home. I had just told my family I was psychic and wanted to pursue my calling, and it didn’t really go over well. It wasn’t in their Great Plan for me.  _ You  _ know, all that talk. So I left. I brought two things from home - my Bible, and that sword I told you about, the one hanging above my mantle. And I moved to London to finish up university.”

Crowley refrained from asking about the sword, but just  _ barely _ . He let Ezra continue.

“On the train to London to start my life over, I realized my Bible had an error. A small thing, barely noticeable, in the book of Job. But it just clicked then. Being psychic wasn’t in the plans. And yet, there I was. Living proof that this  _ was _ the plan. A tiny typo of wiggle room in a big book of expectations. So I started collecting misprints after that. It’s brought me great comfort.”

Crowley was speechless, so he did the only thing he could think of and just nodded meaningfully.

“I think I might try one of these,” Ezra said, gaze falling back to his plate. “Which ones look best to you?”

“Uhhh, maybe the lemon bar. Or chocolate. Big fan of chocolate. Tracy mentioned the pear thing. Or...”

“Oh, I do like pears,” Ezra sighed fondly. Crowley chose a caramel brownie from his own plate and raised it in a  _ cheers _ gesture. 

They ate at their booth, catching the tail end of the apocalypse movie (one of three on the schedule, apparently) and appreciating the sweetness of treats with company. 

They settled into a more comfortable rapport now that the heavier conversations had been taken care of, and eventually they rejoined Warlock and Adam at the shelter, where they were cooing over a small puppy with a turned out ear.

“How’s it going?” Crowley asked them, and they were treated to an exciting inventory of the animals the boys had encountered.

“Have you picked out one to adopt?” Ezra asked Adam, and the boy nodded, his curls bouncing with energy. “This one,” he smiled, and pointed to the dog with the inside-out ear. He really was very cute, Crowley had to admit.

“As long as you’re sure, we can start the paperwork, if you’re ready, dear boy,” Ezra said, and when Adam nodded in assent, they walked over to the counter where Newt and Anathema were talking and fawning over each other.

“Well, Warlock, did you pick out a pet of your own?”

“Maybe,” he said. “It’s down to two options.”

“Make sure you’re sure. This is a huge responsibility. You’ve gotta be willing to feed it, even if the food’s disgusting, and take care of it. Nurture it. They need love and attention and respect.” 

“I know that,” Warlock said, his eyes bright. “Let me show you what I’m thinking.”

They met Harry the Rabbit, who was, Crowley could admit, just as fluffy as everyone had said. And they met Julius, a corn snake who was positively adorable.

In the end, Warlock decided on Julius, which, to Crowley’s secret jubilation, would horrify his parents. They talked with Newt about care and keeping instructions, set up a time to come back and pick up all the equipment and Julius himself next week. This was probably better, because it wasn’t like Warlock could just wear a snake around his shoulders on the train home.

When all was said and done, and the last apocalypse movie was limping to its finale, Crowley and Warlock reunited with Ezra, Adam, and the aptly named new addition to the group: Dog.

There was a spent contentment in the air, and everyone seemed to have enjoyed themselves immensely. Adam and Warlock were also beginning to yawn, which needed to be tended to. So, they said their farewells, collected their equipment (which disappeared back into the infinite carpet bag), and promised Anathema they’d be back to use their Nutter's free coffees in a day or two.

They walked to the station among the city lights and stars, and huddled close together as the winds pried at their coat collars and hems. Warlock and Adam were laughing jubilantly, Dog was galloping beside them with a lolling tongue, and Ezra fell into step beside Crowley.

It felt so natural and welcome to be at his side, and all at once Crowley couldn’t understand how he’d gotten on without Ezra in his life before they’d met. A final piece had been missing until then, but now the circuit was complete.

Some kind of light that had been long dormant inside Crowley’s chest flickered on. And when he looked at Ezra, the world seemed that much brighter for it. There was so much he could see unfolding for the two of them. But there was something else too. Something that no degree of psychic attunement could account for. The ungraspable, the indomitable, the abhorred, and the deeply, breathlessly wanted - the beauty of things not seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta, [cosmya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmya/pseuds/cosmya)! 
> 
> And thanks to all of you for reading! I am woefully behind on replying to comments but I really do appreciate the notes you've left on this fic. You're all so lovely and I'm glad this story brought you some joy. I hope you'll find this conclusion a sweet treat in an otherwise uncertain world. Until the next fic, my friends, and may your horoscopes be nice and accurate.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to say hi on [tumblr!](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)  
> Thanks again to Amanda for putting together this fun AU Fest event, and be sure to check out other extremely talent-packed works in the AUmens collection!


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